


RV'ing to disaster

by Pascal_in_Quebec



Category: seaQuest
Genre: Body Horror, CIA/The Company, Espionage, Halloween mythos, Haunted Buildings, Horror, Insanity, Loss of Faith, Lovecraftian Monster(s), Magical Realism, Mutation, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Occult, Sci-Fi, Soulless things, Terrorism, The Rats - Freeform, Things with tentacles, US Armed Services, US Coast Guard, Violence, abandoned places, child-soldiers, child-spies, criminality, dark places, loss of reality, rape/torture/murder, steampunk tech, the crows - Freeform, unnatural acts, weird science
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-06 03:07:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 37,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21219542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pascal_in_Quebec/pseuds/Pascal_in_Quebec
Summary: A traditional sci-fi Halloween story about an abandoned military base in an foggy New England town besides a lake, with many strange occult and unnatural happenings. It also has many spies, betrayals and political power plays with Janet and William Noyce featuring front & center for it. Nobody and nothing is what it says it is. Trust no one, especially your senses and memory.





	1. NEVER TRUST THE MILITARY WITH ANYTHING

The author wishes to express thanks to anyone who may read his story and encourages them to leave reviews, comments or even flame it hard. As with any who try their hand at publicly expressing an idea or story concept, all feedback is important and welcome.  
Disclaimer: I do not own SeaQuest, Star Wars, nor any other sci-fi or fantasy series, movies, comics, cartoons or news items used in this fiction as they belong to the creators or broadcasters or publishers who put them out for consumption by the public.

SeaQuest

ABSTRACT

This story takes place in season 1, a few weeks after the SeaQuest was violently boarded and taken over by Colonel Shraeder and his mercenaries. I will be modifying several elements of that episode to fit with the fic, notably that there were more mercs in the transport, they were more violent and Lucas had been significantly more reactive and aggressive when helping to safeguard the ship and crew. The modifications to the canon of many episodes will be major and showed as such, in flashbacks or during discussion between crew members.

IMPORTANT: for the purpose of keeping this story logical and relevant, the episode "Nothing but the truth" where Shraeder invades the ship is set as #2 in the season instead of playing at #14. I then follow it immediately by the "Treasures of the Tonga Trench" as #3 instead of playing #5 in the season since I need the inspection to happen quicker to set up stuff quickly and again, logically in time and space. The episode "Bad water" where Lucas, Ford, Krieg and Westphalen are adrift in a life-raft is moved to #4 and then the rest goes weird from there...

This story is Alternate Universe, several characters are OOC and there are several crossovers with many of the maritime-inspired themes and mythos. Like my other story "Justice for Lucas" this has a lot of psionics, magicks et al as such things were part & parcel of the SeaQuest canon in all three seasons. There won't be any temporal mechanics & bypasses in this story.

PS; I like flames, they're fun to read so don't hesitate to write them.

WARNING; the language level of this one is a bit trashy when we consider a story based on boats and sailors. However, as I always warn people who read my work: this language was pretty much normal in the school yard 30 years ago when I was a teenager. So, how can you have such a thin skin and be part of the same culture on the same continent if this is really that offensive to you? Where did you spend the last few decades, if you can't take a few hard words from the mouths of kids when these words have been around since before World War I?

RV'ING TO DISASTER

FIRST CHAPTER; NEVER TRUST THE MILITARY WITH ANYTHING

Those things hidden away in dark corners

(SeaQuest – season 1 – opening theme)

Monday 10th of February, 2020; 09:12am  
SeaQuest DVS 6000  
Coast of South Carolina, USA

"I'm just glad that fool general finished his inspection without further troubles, Bill," Nathan Bridger declared tartly as he dropped two cubes of brown sugar in his coffee while glaring at the image of his old academy partner on the Internex monitor. "It was bad enough when that ground pounding mongrel Shraeder violated the most basic tenets of naval law by faking a distress call to board my boat, but then we almost got squid-raped during the bloody inspection! I really hope that general Lincoln's report was made to reflect the truly exemplary state of mind and readiness of my crew, despite the harrowing events of the last two months."

On the monitor, admiral William Noyce was seated at his desk, on the 24th floor of a brand new building in the heart of New Cape Quest, the purpose-built town that was supposed to become the capital of the UEO Alliance for the 21st Century. The old, round, bald male was enjoying his own coffee and a toasted bagel since he had started his day at 7:00am in a rush. Waving away his friend's griping with a handful of honey basted bagel as he sipped his own black fuel, the rotund sailor replied gamely.

"Our good friend, general 2-stars Abelard Jannon Lincoln III, has been hard at work editing and proof reading his report before submitting it to the UEO Navy. It isn't that bad, though he does like to needle you a bit about being too old and decrepit for the job." Bill said with a toothy grin, wanting to get a rise out of his pal. "But don't worry, I have him under surveillance from right inside his own systems, so we'll be aware if he tries anything weird."

Nathan frowned, asking for clarification, "By surveillance from inside, you mean Lucas hacked his laptop when he was aboard? No way that's anywhere close to legal, is it?"

Bill waved that away too, replying glibly "Details, details, don't get stuck on details, Nate, you'll spend your life stuck in a rut to nowhere. However, since we're on the subject of a certain blond runt that you seem attached to..."

Bridger groaned in misery as he leaned back into his chair, raising his face to the ceiling in misery as he exclaimed "What about Lucas now?"

It wasn't really fair for him, but the teenager was getting to Nathan's nerves more and more as time went by. Not that he was anything less than useful, no, but he wasn't helpful. As in, Nathan could not order the boy to do anything, let alone ask 'favors', and threats produced responses ranging from utterly contemptuous disregard up to overt violence, as several crewmen had found out. Lucas had publicly taken the position that he was aboard for a clearly delimited reason, not to be mister-fit-it for all of the boat's small everyday issues. Get into a life threatening mess and he'd work on it without even being asked, but anything else was a big resounding 'NO' that Nathan couldn't get passed anymore.

And, of course, Nathan couldn't make the kid change attitude under threat of dropping him ashore since it was actually Lucas himself who was paying for his place & upkeep aboard, not his parents, the Navy or an R&D project like the one Kristin Westphalen depended on. Also, the simple fact was that Lucas had designed, built and installed the SeaQuest's massive, innovative, billion dollar cybernetic core, the holographic consoles made exclusively for the ship, and he was a major partner in developing the PAL network that SeaQuest was testing before it was spread to the rest of the UEO fleet. His reason for being aboard was the continuing development of command & control technologies vital for the Alliance's cybernetic safety and primacy, not being the boat's glorified grease-monkey.

That, plus the fact he had his own incorporated holdings since he was 9, was a registered military contractor & lobbyist since he was 12, and was legally emancipated since age 14 via federal court decree, all meant that NOBODY could doubt the kid was aboard because he wanted to be. With an estimated gross revenue above 30 million for the current year just from what the UEO's projects, it would take an imbecile to think the kid was aboard for any reason other than his own profit.

However, Nathan had not been in a fit mind to deal with such an autonomous, powerful genius boy when he first set foot aboard, his only clear goal to hunt down Madelyn Stark. Bridger had been finding out the hard way that Lucas being aboard willingly and his being forced to accept orders from anybody with a badge or over the age of 25 was a very different kettle o' fish. Initially, the captain had deluded himself into thinking that managing the kid would be easy. He'd scare him straight real hard once, set him some busybody jobs six days a week in a closed office away from any critical systems, even those proprietary machines he had designed & built, then make him attend some form of Sunday school to give him some much needed Christian morality. Those do-nothing bleeding-heart liberals in Stanford certainly wouldn't have given any morality or character, that was sure!

Well, since Lucas was actually such an important R&D and corporate partner to the UEO Cabinet, you can guess easily that none of Bridger's quick & easy solutions to having a 16 year old aboard were never going to work. The veteran sure found out the hard way, when he was faced with outright contempt and public tongue lashing on the open bridge, in front of his entire crew, about respecting the people who make the ship work and pay for it to stay afloat, including his salary. The blow-back from the US Navy admiralty and the UEO Fleet Assets had been immediate and irrefutable; Nathan was not in true charge of the ship, not unless Lucas Wolenczak allowed it.

Passing both hands over his tired face, Nathan asked again "What is it Bill? What about Lucas now?"

William Noyce made a noise with his tongue, clucking like a hen at his friend's attitude. Any ill will between him and the teenaged genius was his own doing, so if he wanted it to change, he'd have to work on it to see some results, not just mope in the dark. The young man was one of the most inventive, prolific, and easy to work with geniuses that the US Navy and UEO Alliance had on roster, his inventions easily putting him in the same bracket as Nikola Tesla or Thomas Edison. He was well reputed as being easy-going, amenable and possessing a stable character. All of which Nathan would know and benefit from if he hadn't been stupid enough to try strong-arming the kid like a yokel rube.

Sighing, Noyce aimed his half-eaten bagel ring at the screen, pointing at Nathan's face like a teacher waving a ruler at an unruly pupil as he scolded him tartly. "Gird your damned loins like a man, you mangy cur! Any anger between Lucas and you is your fault, and you know it! So buckle up and make an adult out of yourself, for a change in seven bloody years! Is that clear? You grief and depression over your son and wife's deaths are understandable, but only up to a point. And for the people who dwell in DC and NCQ, that point has been passed. If you don't get over your overblown opinion of your magnificence, you'll be shown what your true size and worth are! By force! There are several who would like to drag you in front of a JAG court for the detrimental behavior you've inflicted on Lucas, and the slowdown in R&D, inventiveness and creation that it caused. Your STUPID decision to try and bury the kid under drudge work was inept, but then trying to keep him out of the systems or machines that he had designed, built and installed for us on a paid contract was monumentally INSANE! How the fuck do you say that the kid doesn't know the gravity or power of those systems when he made them?"

Bill recovered his temper enough to stop haranguing his old friend, chewing the rest of his bagel angrily as he let Nathan some time to order his thoughts before the important conversation could happen. As it was, Bridger took off his glasses, massaging the high point of his nose, between his eyes, more as a gesture of annoyance than anything. Opening his eyes to glare at Bill, he took in a deep, soothing breath before gesturing at the other veteran to speak up his need. He hadn't called this early in the morning for social niceties.

Holding his coffee mug with both hands, Will made a face as he didn't really know if he should take himself on medical leave for a month of rest,instead of bothering people with this sort of madness. However, no matter what he thought, several old acquaintances in US Naval Intelligence where he toiled for 40 years gave him the tip-off, and his personal men & methods had validated the problem. He had no choice but to act to resolve the mess before it became public.

"Alright, Nate. Here's the problem. Three weeks ago, just after you found that giant tentacled plushy in the Tonga Trench..."

Bill had to stop talking to laugh aloud at the constipated face his friend was making at his description of the giant proto-whatever they had accidentally found. The fact the jellyfish – squid hybrid had tried to hump the SeaQuest was still a bit of a 'sore spot' with the good Captain. Not that he blamed him, but it certainly was funny to see his face when the subject was brought up. And he might have been pushing a bit much with that 'tentacled plushy' comment he made.

"Alright, alright! Keep your britches on! It was just a mite of humor!" Noyce declared between guffaws to ward off any rant his friend might start. If he got going, they'd be here till dusk and not discuss the mess heading their way.

Studiously ignoring the frowning face glaring at him, the admiral began anew his exposé. "As you know, three weeks ago just after the Tonga Trench discoveries, your ship was ordered to sail through the Panama-II canal and reach the USA's eastern seas in as short a delay as you could. The admiralty is well aware your people are still nursing their injuries from the invasion by Shraeder's mercenaries, and the stresses of the inspection combined with discovering a giant lifeform have not resolved yet. But, the situation is dire enough that I need to pull your boat and its resources for this job."

Noyce rubbed a hand over his bald pate, frowning as he ordered his thoughts. "The mission brief calls for two separate teams entering the theater of operations at different times, with different presentations so as to have a covert team and your ship being the publicly visible foil that will detract all attention from what our undercover agents will accomplish. The UC team will be comprised of Lucas and several civilians in his employ, while the complement of sailors and civilian scientists declared to be in your care in the ship's public records will remain unchanged."

Captain Bridger sat straight in his chair, gripping the edge of the conference room table with both hands as he asked dangerously "Are you fucking nuts? You're not only tasking a simple civilian with undercover spying in a military context, but also giving him command of a team? And the civy you're choosing is a damned CHILD! Where is your head?" the veteran mariner screamed, outraged.

"Enough!" Noyce commanded as he slammed his mug on his desk, rattling all the furnishings with the strength of the blow. "Remember your place in the hierarchy, captain! Your lack of self-control and incapacity to see the bigger picture surrounding Lucas Wolenczak is what put you on such thin ice with the admiralty and White House to begin with! Now shut up and listen to the damned briefing!"

Seeing his friend deflate back into a restless but silent attitude, Noyce continued; "The town you'll be going to is located in the New England area of the north-east coast. You'll go to New Hampshire and enter the inland waters through the Piscataqua River, until you reach the large lake called Great Bay. Then you will head south-west until you reach the Squamscott River, on the southern shores of the lake. The town is perched on both edges of the upper canyon and the lower plateau that slopes down to the gravely shores of Great Bay, with the navigable river splitting it in halves. The town the problem is centered on is called 'Crow Trench' or 'Squam-satsha' in the tongue of the natives that had settled the place before Europeans came to steal their lands. There are three situations to be concerned with."

Noyce tapped the virtual keyboard built into his desk to send files over the secured link to his old friend so that he could read the maps and briefs as he explained. "As you can see, the Great Bay area is near several key locations of the New England area, including several shipyards and navigable lanes towards the internal waterways of the north-east. It is also positioned right in the narrow strip of land between Maine and Massachusetts, making it a place of commercial and social transit that has helped the growth and stability of the northern USA for three centuries. That very same quality is what now constitutes the greatest threat to the entire zone."

"First problem is that the level of pollution in the Piscataqua River & Bay has spiked terrifyingly over the space of just 12 months. Basic water, sediment, aerial and wildlife analysis conducted by the Great Bay Estuarine Research Council have showed the presence of several unknown elements and isotopes now diffused in the environment surrounding the river system. Two elements and one isotope have been traced back to the Squamscott River watershed, which leaves one element and one isotope still eluding us. We need your specific crew because of their cross-trained expertise at environmental studies and industrial pollution analytics. We need to know where those materials come from, and why the Hells they were never discovered until now."

"Secondly, the SeaQuest's officially publicized mission. Selected members of your military technical crew will be taking part in R&D training exercises to determine the capacity and validity of the US Navy's old facilities at the Vols Island Shipyard Complex, due north of Crow Trench. This is an old navy base built by the USA in 1910, just before the Great War of 1914-18. The industrial complex covers most of the island, and a security / surveillance edifice was built on another, nameless, island just a bit south. The Pentagon has Treaty obligations to rent out some functional industrial & storage space to the UEO for use in military and managerial operations. The old compound was slotted to be mothballed somewhere around 2025 because rebuilding it would be too costly for the use the country would make of it. However, if it proves stable and clean enough, it would be worth paying for a refit as a rentable industrial & military park. So your sailors will have to test the existing facilities, see what can be used as is, salvaged or needs to be torn out and replaced."

Sighing, Noyce girded his courage and plowed onwards; "Now, thirdly, is the undercover job. Lucas will lead his team into Crow Trench proper, with the goal of going up river about a hundred miles, or due south in this case, to an old US Army Corps of Engineers installation called 'Stratham County US-ACE Experimental Landscaping Technology' and discretely investigate the compound. Normally, that would be a breeze as the facility was built in 1927, ran through the Second War, then got decommissioned in late 1950's. Since it's declared abandoned, nothing really dangerous should be happening inside. Except that we have intel suggesting the facilities are in fact not abandoned, and may not be derelict anymore. What we do know is that it isn't the US armed services running that show, and the presence of as-of-yet undiscovered elements in the Great Bay watershed suggests that something truly fishy is going on. We need to find out if this is corporate malfeasance by US companies in the name of greed, or foreign agents mounting an attack from inside our borders. As such, your ship will be running the environmental tests and evaluate the old base as cover stories while loitering in the area to support Lucas in case he finds something that regular US police or military can't handle."

Nathan blinked twice at that statement, asking softly "Are you saying that this has the potential to turn from an environmental impact study into a black-op and wetworks without warning? Because anything the regular boys in blue or green can't handle is pretty much only those sorts of things. Are you actually expecting my crew to run a silent guerrilla inside our own backyard? Without the public or media getting wind of it? How is that possible in that zone of New England?"

Noyce shrugged powerlessly, replying "There are 5 new natural elements floating around that part of our backyard, all discovered in the last 12 months, mostly by accident. Several local hospitals and private clinics have declared to the CDC events of abnormal births, congenital defects and what some have actually dared to call openly 'mutations'. And that's besides what farmers have been reporting about their cattle or crops for the last 80+ years, oftentimes with proof in hand that was validated by reputable laboratories, including the local CDC branch. We have a situation developing that could just be a series of benign natural events, or a an epidemic-sized cancer gnawing silently at the blood of our country. We need answers, Nathan, and honestly, we needed them one or two decades ago by what I can see."

Captain Bridger rubbed his chin as he gazed at the varied maps and ecological surveys displayed on the secondary monitor set up on the conference table. He switched files to look over the Vols Island facilities and saw that it wasn't that big a challenge, just a lot of onerous, minutious analytics to be done manually before filing forms & pictures. The real danger would be with whatever the spy team found out at the Stratham US-ACE complex, which was comparable in size to Vols Island. Making a face, Nathan asked "What could ever make you think that a 16 year old kid can handle black-ops or wetworks, if this goes down the crapper like you hint it could?"

William answered in soft words, his voice filled with sorrow as his eyes glazed over in contemplation of old memories; "Because he already has, and will do so again, if he is called upon by the needs of a higher cause."

To that, Nathan Hale Bridger had no reply.

Teenager ahoy

(SeaQuest – season 1 – opening theme)

Monday 10th of February, 2020; 11:18am  
SeaQuest DVS 6000  
Wilmington, Coast of North Carolina, USA

The massive blue-gray 1,000 foot length of the SeaQuest was sailing ahead at what it considered a leisurely 75 knots (or 150K/h) submerged at a mere 500 feet below the waves because it was towing the surface reconnaissance antenna's newest version. The last one had gotten wrecked by an unlucky lightning strike a week back, almost ending the ship and crew in one fell swoop. They had managed to recover enough to be operational for non-combat operations, but the science labs around sea-deck and the technical workshops were still badly affected.

Lucas Wolenczak was, of course, in the thick of it all.

Primarily because it was his job to reboot and secure the massive central computer core he had designed, built and installed in the ship's belly over the two years she had spent in drydock following Madelyn Stark's episode of 'Nuke E'm All!' madness. The fact the bloody towed surface antenna was yet another project he had collaborated on and signed off as being complete meant he was hooked into fixing that too. Then the holographic network needed shoring up, which meant the prototype PAL network needed it too, before the holo-grid's troubles cascaded around.

Then the mooks on sea-deck started wailing that he wasn't payig them the respect they were due for their age, diplomas and standing in the scientific community by focusing on his emergency workload instead of holding their hand and doing their jobs for them. Free of charge of course, as it was supposed to be a show of his submissive respect for them, not a display of his many competencies. Well, for once in a blue moon, commander Ford and doctor Westphalen had teamed up to browbeat the stupid fools into shutting up so he could finish the boat-saving refits in peace.

Allelujah and amen! Peace at last!

It only took nearly dying in a downed MR-3 shuttle and surviving in a drifting liferaft for two days to finally get some credibility and support form the idiot 'higher' people aboard.

Snort!

As if he wasn't higher than them, on account of paying for his cabin, office and everything else between. Ford was a salaried soldier, not an investor or scientist with a research grant. Westphalen was a beggar who constantly had to find new investors, university funded research projects or governmental grants for ecological analytics, to justify her presence aboard. Neither had a damned dime in the boat compared to what he brought in from his own company, let alone his external partnerships, but they still thought they could browbeat him into menialness due to his young age.

Whelp, no. Not happening anymore, as Nathan Bridger could attest.

Lucas was now pissed off something fierce as the last two months had showed him quite nicely the full extension of humanity's imbecility and knavery. Oh, he was well aware of that state of affairs for a decade already, but he'd mostly experienced it through a monitor or second hand testimonials. Now, he'd lived it in person and was not impressed with just how momentously crass, debased, and numbnuttedly moronic humans were. And most were happy to be that way, too! Cretins!

He really should have staid ensconced in his house in Palo Alto, near Stanford campus. He would have been relatively safe, close to civilization, and just maybe he could have finally developped a damned social life at this point of his existence. A social life that was more than just talking to the hired household staff, private tutors, drivers and restaurant delivery guys that were the extent of his interactions to date.

Yes, he had his own successful electronics R&D company, with all the employees, clients, suppliers, accountants and lawyers involved. But he almost never had a decent conversation with any of them because most of the interactions were done through web service portals and automated forms that passed client orders, fixed employee schedules, attributed equipment or projects, etc... Almost 95% of the usual human interactions were removed from his days, limiting him to just his home staff or business relations.

At least he had the Noyces in his life, even if Janet and William were more of a long distance relationship given of seldom they visited each other in person. Still, it was nice of the old couple to call him occasionally for more than business or emergencies. And Janet had taken the habit of sending him a care package every other month, filled with goodies from her oven. For the first time in 16 years, Lucas was actually starting to fill-up a bit, instead of staying the skinny beanpole he'd always been.

Speaking of which, the last package, safely locked away in the service counter of his enclosed office, had contained a little something from Bill as well. The good thing about knwong farmers was that you often got fresh edibles of much higher quality than the usual supermarket fare. Those honey & orange glazed ham steaks he'd sent sure looked promising, as did the pound of maple-cured bacon slices and that sinful rack of ribs done in Cajun BBQ style. Damn them both for knowing his weaknesses!

As Janet was wont of saying, "If you want a man to help with something, speak to his gut".

Curse the old biddy for being such a conniving, manipulative bitch-whore! Then again, doing four decades in the CIA's European division would do that for a gal. She wouldn't have survived the Cold War and the Fall of the Berlin Wall if she hadn't developped skills and attitude along the way.

The teenager gave a forlorn look to his service counter, imagining a steaming plate of ham steak, creamy mashed potatoes, crisp vinegary coleslaw and a cool lemonade when a knock resounded on his office door. Frowning in anger at the interruption, he typed a few keys on his keyboard to have all active apps save his work then shut off in one maneuver. The coding for the dragged antenna was classified by both the USA and UEO, nobody but a handful of people should ever see it.

Pushing a small button on the raised module built into his desk surface, he called through the intercom a bratty "Yeeeeessss? Are you lost? I can connect you with the tourism office, if you need."

The growled "Very funny, kid. Now open up, I have to talk to you," from the captain made him smirk in amusement as the older man was slowly beginnig to figure out just how outmatched he was in their little war of wills. It only took two whole months, but they were finally getting to the goalpost. Another two months and they should be able to have a civilized conversation without threats and posturing.

The genial teen pushed another button on the raised module to unlock the door and make it pivot open on its hydraulics. That was a luxury he had paid for dearly, but it returned the value in spades because he was the only person on the ship with a mechanical door on either his office or dwelling, and the security clearance he had meant that only Bridger could override the door's lock, but not remove the alarms and remote monitoring that would warn the UEO HQ about intruders. Bragging rights and proof of importance in the Scheme-of-Things could come in strange shapes indeed, but it mattered enough that Lucas had gone through the motions and now he could exploit the dividends in full view of everybody.

Marching heavily through the open valve, the captain was apparently in a grumpy mood this morning as he dropped himself in the swiveling sofa that faced the desk where the adolescent prodigy sat. The older male was wearing the more formal trousers, shirt and jacket version of the officers' uniform, as opposed to the stupid blue jumpsuit most submariners still used in the US navy. Bridger also had a small satchel on a shoulder strap that he put on top of the large, decorative desk, while gesturing towards the still open entry door. Sitting backwards into his plushly cushioned chair, Lucas spoke aloud a phrase in Russian that triggered the domotics in the office, making the door close and lock.

Bridger pursed his lips tightly as he frowned at the younger male, taking his glasses off to look at the boy with naked eyes, despite that they were weakening with age. Whatever he wanted to see or felt he had perceived, the sailor grunted an odd noise that was mostly stress and anger, asking tartly "Does your office have a SCIF mode? I have something from Noyce to talk about with you."

Silently, Lucas took a key out of his pants pocket, slotting it into a hole hidden between the central drawer of the desk and the first drawer on the left side block. He turned the key, making a small module raise from the surface of the desk, similar to the already visible one that controled the intercom, doorway, lights and ventilation. Extending a hand, he pushed three buttons in sequence to trigger an armored rolltop door to slide town over the entire external façade of the office, covering the door and large glass window that made such small enclosed space so precious on the ship. Silently and unseen, other systems buried deeply in the bulkheads and merged with the segments of the infrastructures passing through or around his office activated, dampening vibrations or putting out 'white noise' shakes to deter microphones and sensors. Inside the office became visible a thin silvery barrierthat ran along all four walls, the ceiling and near the floor plates, under the plush noise absorbing thermal carpet. All the lights in the room changed from a pleasant soft, muted white to a dull, rust-red shade and a few of the decorative elements completely shut off. Even the ventilation system closed louvers in the ducts, setting itself to recycle the air in the room instead of drawing from the rest of the ship.

SCIF; Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility.

As of that moment, nothing came in or out unless Lucas was aware and permitted it. Not cybernetically, not energetically, and not physically either. Everything was shut tighter than a sleeping sloth's eyes and would stay that way until it was time to go public again. The adolescent waved a hand idly at the steel door that was almost invisible, hidden behind the full wall of wooden built-in cabinetry on the left side of the office when coming inside. As befit such a highly paid, enclosed and secured setup, he had an actual suite; the main office room, the bathroom (left) and the workshop (right).

"If you have any needs, use my washroom," the teenager declared softly, "The SCIF protocol is a bit much to put on & off just if you want to go for a breeze. Besides, my bath matches the one you have so you shouldn't be feeling let down."

The captain simply glared levelly at the younger man's poor attemtp at humor, being well aware of just how his office was set up. It was the same as all the other high level scientists emplaced in the corridors near the much vaunted sea-deck and moonpool, except for the SCIF security. That was all Lucas. And boy did the other university and corporate eggheads give him grief about letting a 'mere child' have such outrageous symbols of power and authority when they could have that prime space and high tech setup instead. Lucas, of course, always answered that they could pay for it as well, if they wanted it so much. Strangely enough, the bitching was never done when the boy was present, only the sailors...

Gathering his wits from whence they strayed, Bridger said curtly "Bill has sent over a mission brief for a prolonged job aground, in New Hampshire's Great Bay area, in the town of Crow Trench. Something about two to four weeks in duration. Black-ops with wetworks possible, full road team necessary."

Lucas made a face as he tapped the touchscreen on his system, making it switch over to the more private parts of his corporate scheme. Quickly, a list of rows bearing a photo, name, age, civil status, health status, specialties and current assignement filed before his eyes, extracting and ordering all those who were free for such a task in the timeframe required.

"Did Noyce bother to tell anything immediately germane for the mission, or is it all in the packet?" the teen asked a bit offhandedly, his mind busy at tracking seven different things already.

Nathan replied slowly, uncertain of matters at hand, "One primary mission, one secondary mission, three publicized cover stories. The ship will local inside Great Bay, in case your cover is broken and you need evac, rescue or armed support. I was informed not to plan for mopping operations as I don't have the crew strength to carry that out, and you aren't to bother either."

Flint-blue eyes focused on the arc of five touchscreen monitors, five mice, three keyboards and one extra-large touch-pad, the young male made a soft noise of assent as he commented "I never do mop jobs anyways, my specialty is investigative cybernetics with hard tech R&D, accompanied by some biosciences. I can do first & second aid in a pinch, but I'm better at pharmaceutics than actual medical care. Some in my team can be used for clean-up, if it absolutely needs to be ghosted, otherwise it's a waste of talents and efforts."

Lifting his gaze to the older male, the prodigy asked "Are we dealing with environmental animals gone feral, felon citizens or foreign agents? Wetworks implies something alive that shouldn't be."

And he said that with such a glib, even tone that it made Nathan have a chill down his back. The captain replied in studiously even voice; "They detected environmental pollution, which lead to discovering 5 new elements not in the Periodic Table, and presumably not synthetic. 2 are isotopes which raises the specter of heavy metal poisoning and radiation sickness, including mutations or genetic degenerescence. The sallient point for your team is that an old US Army base supposed to be abandoned since the late 1950's doesn't seem so empty anymore, and it sits near the head of the river from where 3 of the new elements come. That's your job; investigate, determine, and... manage. That's how Bill put it to me. That according to what you find, you would 'manage', then he would get your report and send a squad to finish wrapping the situation for disposal."

The blond head nodded once as he was already sending orders for his usual roadway setup to be put in transit for the New Hampshire region. It would have to be sent via cargo planes, a pair of military Hercules C-130 loaned by USAF could probably handle it. Otherwise, the UEO's new cargo jetcopters could be tested out for it, if Bill had a pair to lease.

Still thinking about his choice of road teams and the number of vehicles to put on the job, the genial boy blinked a few times to recenter his mind, focusing his laser-like gaze on the mariner seated before him. "Was there anything else you need to tell me verbatim, or can I just read the brief? Usually, these job assignements are pretty standard, only the unwritten parts need this kind of personal touch."

Nathan still couldn't make anything out of the kid's drab, monotone reception of the orders he had just been given. Then again, he had worked with the CIA only as an external technology analyst for a few dossiers while he was designing & building the SeaQuest. He never got any training for tradecraft, or advanced combat, or counter-intelligence, or any of those things The Company does best. How was it that this little terror could be so deep already at his age, and that Janet Noyce spoke of him like an old pro who'd gone to war by her side, in the bad old days of the Warsaw Pact's height.

Shaking his head negatively slowly as he rubbed his chin pensively, Nathan Bridger declared "No, nothing that comes to mind. Will you be autonomous from this point, or do we have meetings to update the status of each team? It's our first time working together on such a case, so I need to know what your procedure book looks like, from both sides of the table."

Reclining comfortably in his chair, the young man joined hands over his belly, the low light reflecting over the plain brass ring he wore on the middle finger of each hand. Looking at the older man's eyes for a few seconds, the boy decided the request was valid, so he answered truthfully. "We both have some basic setup to process, then we'll have a first conference with the military department heads only to make sure everybody is in. Then we'll have a second conference with the same group when we reach The New Hampshire coastline, before going inland to brown waters. At that point, my team will be present aboard for a much needed meet & greet so we don't accidentally shoot allies if things go as bad as Bill Noyce expects. After that, it will be remote vid-meets only unless we need to send you physical samples for testing, or we need med-evac that a local hospital can't handle, mostly combat injuries. If the mess devolves badly enough that we're still on land in a month, we'll have to meet face to face, with Noyce, to set up an alternate group to manage the rest. My scheduling has too many moving parts for me to be abscent or invisible more than two weeks at a time. So do yours, to be honest."

Thinking about the situation, Nathan commented "That means you won't be operating fully undercover, but intermittently. That's why you have a team coming in. And we'll have to maintain the civilian activities and contracts, no matter what, so we can't go UC at all, not unless in full combat, something that shouldn't be happening inside the USA's riverine system. Out on the littoral, there could be some armed enemy boat, even a small stealth warship, passing contraband or people, but not inland where we'll be. Putting the SeaQuest on lock-down for more than a day or two without more justification will backfire quickly."

The adolescent gave the older male a wan smile as he sympathized with his situation, but he had his own mess to wade through. "At least you have two public façades to hide behind in the open, I'll have to come up with something by using my companies because I'm not military or government. Then again, I'm used to it by now. Is there anything else I can do for you? Or the ship?"

Snorting in amusement, Nathan pointed out "I see you're not offering to help the crew or civilian contractors. The ship or Bill Noyce, but not anybody else. Is there a reason?"

Making a face of contempt, the younger male replied nastily "I would be more inclined to help the people if they stopped trying to bully me into being their slave-boy, doormat, fuck toy, or milk-cow each and every time they see me in the corridor. If things continue, I'm seriously thinking about upgrading my office and stateroom amenities with fridges and more storage so I can pack provisions to eat alone in my own suites instead of the public mess hall. At least, I don't have to endure the hassle of the public bathrooms and laundry because these fools would harrass me in there as well. I have already written out more than 17 complaints concerning 11 culprits. Your shipboard JAG officer should have informed you of those as they came in over the last 8 weeks."

Bridger was now in a foul mood for the rest of the day. "No, I haven't been informed of any of them, and especially nothing about you being accosted for sexual aggression or defamation. I'll ask the woman later today why that is. Were there any witnesses at the time? Or recordings?" The veteran was wondering why it was so damned hard to maintain order aboard this kind of ship all of a sudden. There were hundreds of cameras and microphones hidden all over to defend from sabotage, espionage, theft and also prevent aggression or violence between crewmembers. It should be easy to prove any allegation spoken by anybody.

Shaking his head negatively with an angry, jerky movement, the adolescent countered "You'll find that the few times there were multiple people present, they were too busy laughing or approving the attacks against me to help me, and none would testify against the guilty party. Mutual protection like a pack of feral animals hunting after a weak prey just for fun, not for eating. I have a nasty feeling that your JAG officer shares many of those feelings. As a matter of fact, when I filed the paperwork for the complaints through the civilian contractors' support web portal, she never asked me for an interview, never asked for proof, and I have never heard from Manilow Crocker that she pulled camera films."

Nodding once firmly, Nathan signalled he would look into that as well, while he was at it. Nobody should have to live like a troglodyte aboard his ship, especially not somebody who had given so much of his life and efforts to the boat over the last 27 months. Plus, he seemed to be deeply in serving the Common Good silently, behind the scenes, which meant the crew should be supporting him, not shooting him in the legs every chance the had.

With their meeting completed, Lucas revoked the SCIF protocol, returning his office back to its civilian friendly setup, the thick rolltop door sliding back up into its housing, giving both men a clear view of the foot trafic in the corridor and activities in the other, similar executive suites nearby. It also revealed the worse trublion to poison Lucas' life aboard ship; Aakav Bhaat, an Hindu scientist from the Punjab region. The older male had dark brown skin, long silver hair rolled into a bun under an orange turban, and a very long goatee beard that had small gold amulets braided into it. His dark black eyes were always full of violence, a stark counterpoint to his small stature and honeyed words when addressing anybod who wasn't Lucas. His high, flutey voice was known to shred the nerves of even his supporters and the comical effect of its sounds belied the pernicious nature of his ageist, racist speech. No doubt the ill-mannered bastard had been loitering nearby, ready to verbally attack the teenager the moment he raised the rolltop door and was accessible. The only reason the mangy old crone hadn't acted was the presence of a witness that wasn't proven sympathetic to his views, like some sailors were.

Lucas snorted, as the imbecile had just reminded the adolescent of a problem he had been meaning to resolve, but hadn't found time in his busy schedule to commit th deed. Well now, it would get finished and the menial little shite would never bother him again. As Bridger left the office, he closed the door and locked it, knowing the young man had many priorities to organize, thus accidentally cutting off whatever nefarious verbal aggression the elderly scientist was planning to perform, once the sailor was gone out of hearing range. Making a face of clear anger at being denied what he saw as his right and authority under Vishnu and his Deva, the poor fool smacked the armored valve a few times then began to suck on his stinging limb, big fat tears rolling down his face as he faked being the aggrieved party.

No doubt that vapid wannabe Westphalen would believe him, again, and try to lobby the captain and ship's council to have Lucas 'reprimanded', or 'corrected', or some such, again. It would only be the fifth time since the ship set out of Pearl Harbor, nine weeks ago, that she tried to step out of her station in life to assume power and jurisdiction over the younger male.

Whelp, this time she'd hit a brick wall.

One does not trifle with national security, especially inside the borders of the USA. Something a certain mister Aakav Bhatt would learn in a personal way soon. After all, he may have conned the Indian government enough to make them believe he was loyal, the multitude of payments he took from the Iranian Revolutionary Guard over the last 21 years proved otherwise. And as soon as mister Bhatt was disembarked from the ship and made an exemple of, doctor Westphalen would be instructed in the Order of Things aboard ship, in the UEO Alliance, and in society at large, once and for all.

Now, where did he put Janet Noyce's secret CIA number, again? He had it yesterday...

Good neighbors and friends

(SeaQuest – season 1 – opening theme)

Monday 10th of February, 2020; 11:52am  
Noyce Residence  
New Cape Quest, Florida, USA

Janet Faith Noyce, née Harkson, was happily putting the finishing touches on her small luncheon when the telephone chose that most annoying moment to ring. Less than ten minutes before the noon bell! Who could be the uncouth lout that did this? Didn't people have any manners anymore? The elderly lady promptly revised her opinion when she saw he number displaid on the caller ID. There were no ways that Lucas Wolenczak was mannerless, or unaware of the time of day unless he got conked on the head by one of his mother's no-good boy-toys again. But he was supposed to be aboard the SeaQuest, so why would he call, and on her special Company number, too?

Whelp, no time like the present to find out. "Yello, dearie! How's the dark, dreary tin can doing these days?" the old woman asked playfully in guise of salutation the moment she heard something other than the tonality in the handset.

Grumping amusedly, Lucas replied "Not to shabby, yet, but it could be better. Your last care package certainly helped with my mood, if not my boyish figure. Have I ever told you how much I love you, lately?" the teen asked between bouts of laughter.

Sitting down at her kitchen island to eat as she was alone, Janet put the phone on speaker so she could begin her meal, knowing that Lucas was too paranoid to say anyhting damning even if this was supposed to be a secured CIA phone. If only her other partners could be as dedicated to op-sec and protocols as this one was, she could retire with her mind at ease.

"Alrighty, then, sweetie. You love me and my food. Now, tell granny Janet what ails you enough that you call right on the noon meal instead of waiting at 13:00pm like the civilized gentleman I know you to be." She smiled as the younger man tried to prevaricate a bit, just for the form. Admitting to anything was against the nature of the job, so to speak, and none of them liked to to it, even amongst friends.

"Fine," the boy sighed loudly in mock forlornness, "Your dearest hubbie dropped a woozie on me this morning, bad enough to tie my hands for three or more weeks. I need clearance to wrap up a few loose odds & trinkets laying about. Like Aakav Bhatt and his coterie of ass-kissers, to start. If I could have a go at Westphalen's hide along the way, I wouldn't mind the detour. That sort of thing. No biggie, really."

Janet munched on some crisp grilled veggies as she mentally reviewed the societal layout of the SeaQuest, finally answering "What changed? We still need the Iranians to be disinformed about the goings-on aboard, and Bhatt is the easiest, most direct route for that. For Westphalen, the problem comes from somewhere in the higher echelons of the UEO Cabinet. She has protection from above, but not from the British MI sections or judiciary. She's the patsy, and paid serving-wench, of someone real high in the ladder. Until we find whom, dumping the bint on her arse will be hazardous. Not fatal, not for me or you, but it could lead to some nasty surprises that we would have to clean up afterwards."

The teenager explained simply "I can't leave the boat for days and weeks, possibly over a month, when that Iranian sock-puppet is loose aboard, doing damage to my reputation that will make the crew and contractors hesitate to follow orders or lent armed support when the call is sent. I can't let a poison spitting viper rot my good name and societal position without response, not unless the mission requires that we court with catastrophe to get the result. To date, the mission brief doesn't ask that. As for uppity little miss know-it-all Westphalen, I'm at the point of not caring anymore who her support is. She has tried to have me declared 'medically unfit to handle my own life', and of course tried to have herself set up as Guardian-Mandatary with Power-of-Attorney over my personal and corporate holdings. You should have seen Bridger's face when she pulled that one out, four days ago. Especially when I replied by activating the Internex monitor to show them that her precious judge who signed the papers had been arrested on charges of fraudulently assigning Guardians to sane, healthy people in exchange of kickbacks and favors. Good times, that was. Good times."

Janet could easily imagine the wide smirk on the boy's face as he detailed events. She could just as easily see that Kristin Westphalen had overplayed her hand badly, publicly showing just how far down the road of illegality and fraud she was willing to go to dominate and crush Lucas out of any autonomy, money or choices he had. Yes, it was time to take a calculated risk about her fate. As for the Iranians...

"Okay sweetie, here's what you'll do; clean out the brown rat, and do it publicly so that people can see and take your words seriously from now on. I'll have my own people handle the foolish whore and climb up the ladder to see where she takes her jumped-up attitude from. It can't be that high or she wouldn't have needed to try a fraud to steal your money, company and freedom from you. It's probably a senior secretary to a Cabinet member, or an adjunct-director to some small department head. We'll find out and send the report down the usual route. Is there anything else, dear? My pork stir fry is getting cold, and you don't rightly get between a Noyce and her pigs."

An amused guffaw of gentle laughter wafted from the telephone speaker, indicating Lucas had indeed seen the humor in her quip. "Okay, Lady J, I'll let you eat in peace. God knoes that after forty years of Billy making a nuisance of himself, you deserve some quiet every now and then. Bye!"

The old woman smirked at the silent phone as she speared a piece of tender roast pork, thinking that she should make a better attempt at matching the kid with one of her grand-daughters. There were three in his age bracket that were still available; no sense in letting good husband material pass by.


	2. A CALL TO ARMS

The author wishes to express thanks to anyone who may read his story and encourages them to leave reviews, comments or even flame it hard. As with any who try their hand at publicly expressing an idea or story concept, all feedback is important and welcome.  
Disclaimer: I do not own SeaQuest, Star Wars, nor any other sci-fi or fantasy series, movies, comics, cartoons or news items used in this fiction as they belong to the creators or broadcasters or publishers who put them out for consumption by the public.

SeaQuest

ABSTRACT

This story takes place in season 1, a few weeks after the SeaQuest was violently boarded and taken over by Colonel Shraeder and his mercenaries. I will be modifying several elements of that episode to fit with the fic, notably that there were more mercs in the transport, they were more violent and Lucas had been significantly more reactive and aggressive when helping to safeguard the ship and crew. The modifications to the canon of many episodes will be major and showed as such, in flashbacks or during discussion between crew members.

IMPORTANT: for the purpose of keeping this story logical and relevant, the episode "Nothing but the truth" where Shraeder invades the ship is set as #2 in the season instead of playing at #14. I then follow it immediately by the "Treasures of the Tonga Trench" as #3 instead of playing #5 in the season since I need the inspection to happen quicker to set up stuff quickly and again, logically in time and space. The episode "Bad water" where Lucas, Ford, Krieg and Westphalen are adrift in a life-raft is moved to #4 and then the rest goes weird from there...

This story is Alternate Universe, several characters are OOC and there are several crossovers with many of the maritime-inspired themes and mythos. Like my other story "Justice for Lucas" this has a lot of psionics, magicks et al as such things were part & parcel of the SeaQuest canon in all three seasons. There won't be any temporal mechanics & bypasses in this story.

PS; I like flames, they're fun to read so don't hesitate to write them.

WARNING; the language level of this one is a bit trashy when we consider a story based on boats and sailors. However, as I always warn people who read my work: this language was pretty much normal in the school yard 30 years ago when I was a teenager. So, how can you have such a thin skin and be part of the same culture on the same continent if this is really that offensive to you? Where did you spend the last few decades, if you can't take a few hard words from the mouths of kids when these words have been around since before World War I?

RV'ING TO DISASTER

SECOND CHAPTER; A CALL TO ARMS

Wolenczak Consolidated Cybernetics, Inc 2013.

(SeaQuest – season 1 – opening theme)

Monday 10th of February, 2020; 12:12pm (noon)  
WCC, main edifice  
Palo Alto, California, USA

In a drab gray cement building which was concealed behind drab gray cinderblock walls and steel panel gates, barely five storeys high above ground but twice as many below, sat an equally drab, morose old lady who went by the name of Misses Brutehilden Kriegswehr. She was white skinned, with white hair, withe teeth, white nails and even white eyes as she suffered from albinism since birth.

Misses Kriegswehr was officially a simple junior department head, beneath the senior heads like sales & revenues, real estate assets, legal & litigation, human ressources, and the holy grail of the business, the R&D department which umbrella-ed over all the many sub-departments and sub-sectors of research, development, prototyping, testing, packaging and recycling their own innovations. Other junior departments were motorpool, landscaping, employee entertainment, marketing & advertising, societal influence, in-house training, outside training, school partnerships, governmental partnerships and environmental compliance. In that long list, you wouldn't find Misses Kriegswehr's department, nor the subdivisions inside of it, and for good reason.

She was the head of the Department of Failures, Accidents and Penal Liabilities.

It was one of several junior departments that young mister Wolenczak had created at the inception of his company, when he was 9 years old. The others were supposed to help teenaged delinquents find the path of lawfulness and civility, assist employees with their familial troubles, grant charitable help to select patients suffering long-term hospitalization in less than favorable conditions, and even a program for the early release and rehabilitation of teen/adult prisoners whom the Judicial system had forsaken.

The other heads of the junior departments were somewhat similar in appearance and demeanor to Misses Kriegswehr, though none shared her placid, utterly invisible glee at carrying out the many devastating acts of shadow-warfare her employer tasked her with. Because that was her job, to wage war from the depths of nooks, crannies, cellars, attics, and the deep shadows of abandoned buildings.

Brutehilden Kriegswehr had seen many long, cruel, inhumane wars in her 82 years of life by the time she first met the prodigious young scientist who would rebuild her life and soul. She had spilled much blood in the name of his Cause, in these last 6 years. If her old acquaintance Janet noyce hadn't been the reference, she would probably have passed besides the opportunity. But Janet had called her, she had met the child, and accepted once more to bear arms in the service of a True Lord of Shadows.

Young Lucas Andrew Holt Wolenczak had made many, many, insidious enemies in the course of his brief life, several of which were already at rest in Mother Gaia's bosom. Lucas had killed a few himself, Brutehilden had killed a few others, and the 'contractors' had killed or maimed many others.

The best part? Nobody knew.

Lucas Wolenczak didn't take contracts. He didn't do hits for money, as he was rich enough on his own merits from many projects he had sold, or problems he had been rewarded for fixing when nobody else could. He had also hacked through the bank accounts, specifically the illegal ones, of most of his enemies near the moment of their appointed demise. So the point of the operation wasn't money, power, authority, influence or hijacking the governments of the world.

The Great Cause was simply equitable, peaceful and well ordered Societal Peace for All.

Which meant that Lucas hated viscerally anything that caused chaos, disorder, disruption, criminality, mafious groups, and above all else, pedophiles. Especially the most depraved spawn of America's lack of wits and fortitude when it came to managing the People's liberties; the NAMBLA and other such groups that seek to defend the 'right' of old men to rape children for whatever insanity they preached.

Lucas had spent the last 6 years of his life identifying, hunting down, capturing, interrogating and destroying felonious criminals, mafious gangsters, domestic & foreign terrorists, spies and irregular combatants paid by rogue states, who used the sexual enslavement of persons as the means to finance their dirty, immoral acts.

Lucas was barely 5 years old, the first time he spoke with a Buffalo city policeman about what he heard a man speak of, with his mother. She was a high-level criminalist who took anybody with enough cash to make themselves interesting, regardless of guilt. She had even become aware of cops, prosecutors and judges being bribed, intimidated or killed off, and never said anything, so long as her hand was heavy with the money needed to rent her patience.

Lucas had started to silently listen to the unholy conversations when he was 3 years old, then began recording them when he was 4. At age 5 he put poison in the drink of a lecherous old man who had offered 15,000$ to Cynthia so he could have the innocent little boy for the evening. The man died, the coroner didn't want to speak against what she saw as well deserved justice, so the police called it 'accidental food poisoning' and blamed a local restaurant for unsalubrious conditions. Lucas called that a success and continued, silently slipping small doses of poison to his mother's worse clients by preparing the glasses or mugs ahead of her scheduled meetings. Since she met the most damning cases at her home office, usually in the evening after dinner, it was easy for the child to act unseen.

At age 8, his grand-parents' sollicitors finally managed to corall Cynthia out of the way so that the two joint testaments of both maternal and paternal progenitors could be read and executed. This finally allowed Lucas access to the school trust fund, familial foundation and company that his forebears had prepared for him in Buffalo, New York State, where he was domiciled in his early childhood. From that moment on, the prodigious child knew exactly what is money and company would be doing, from behind the banal cover of high tech R&D.

It is so much easier to wiretap someone when you are the person who installed their phones, computers and all the wires to begin with. Since the child had gotten several university diplomas at young ages when others aren't even in secondary school yet, he certainly had the science, technology and know-how to pass for a tech buff, a new Elon Musk in the making, but without the excentricities.

If only the civilian population knew a fraction of what the CIA knows.

A few thousand would stop sleeping at all, while a fair few million would sleep so much better.

Misses Kriegswehr stopped her pleasant reminiscing, a favorite pastime when she was eating her lunch at her desk, as a very specific tonality emerged from a very specific telephone that only a few people still alive had knowledge of.

Her Lord was calling to War.

She unlocked the secret compartment with her fingerprint, opened the hidden drawer and took the wired handset, pressing it to her right ear with trepidation. This custom phone was used only when an emergency was decreed, otherwise all regular orders came through the encrypted email server dedicated to her department.

'Jawohl, mein Herr Gebieter (Yes, my Lord Arbiter) what is the target?" the matronly old woman asked, her thick Bavarian germanic accent coming to the fore at the though of bloodshed and warfare against such debased curs as would be the only beings her Master would aim her at.

Responding politely, Lucas greeted her as he always did; "Guten tag, frau Leiter Kriegswehr. I have received a request for direct intervention from admiral Noyce, to be billed to the USA. They have spotted some environmental contamination that stinks of artifice, and they just realized that one of their old abandoned army bases may not, in fact, be abandoned anymore. We have an I-D-M commission, with full coverage. The SeaQuest will be positioned locally for support, and all clean-up and mopping to be handled by CIA or Section-7, depending on the finds and actions taken."

Gleeful to the point of exultation, Brutehilden moved her small lunch out of the way, pulling near her three keyboards and two mice to begin sending out the series of heavily encrypted emails and voice messages that would bring to bear the full (hidden) force of WCC against these knaves.

"I gather you shall be needing the bus & rig, mein Gebieter? How soon do you need to be mobile?"

Sighing in annoyance, Lucas answered "Bill Noyce may have slightly overestimated the number of assets and the deployment capacity of our organization. He wants me active in New Hampshire in less than five days, in the Great Bay area, around the town of Crow Trench. There's an email with the UEO's mission brief, maps, etc... Also, I sent you the equipment list for the bus, and the team setup needed. Since I'm possibly going to be stuck in a motorized can for three to five weeks with these guys, I chose the group mostly due to our capacity to tolerate each other without too many clashes. The differing skills and competencies will also help cover any mess we encounter."

'Jawohl, mein Herr. I have received the list. I will process all in the usual manner. But for the transport, the bus & rig are roadbound, they cannot float or fly. How do we get them to the East Coast in time?"

"I'm gonna have Bill Noyce rent us one of the UEO's brand new crago jet-copters. Those things are 150 feet long with eight twin-jet orientable motors, four to each side. The aircraft will arrive tomorrow morning near 10:00am at our normal sea dock and use the concrete pier as a landing pad. Both the bus and the rig will fit inside, as long as they're folded. The jet-copter is just a bit slower than a commercial fixed wing jetliner, so it should take something like 11 hours to cross the continent from Palo Alto to the Portsmouth International Airport (at Pease, NH), right in the heart of our operations theater. The airfield is actually less than an hour away from Crow Trench, and an hour and half from the defunct US-ACE base. It's also right atop the lake of Great Bay where the SeaQuest will be loitering during their overwatch posting, as they have a pair of jobs to do as well, as their cover story."

The silver haired lady nodded once as she was speed-reading through the virtual copy of the brief, seeing the elaborate cover that had been woven for the SeaQuest crew, and their orders for supporting of the WCC field team. As always, it would be a pleasure to guide her Master's troops through their conflicts, even if only like this, as a pair of eyes looking from afar.

"Oh, before I forget," Lucas added as an afterthought, "I have received the go-ahead from Janet noyce to eliminate Aakav Bhaat and have Kristin Westphalen forcibly removed from the ship. She said that we'd figure out who was backing the woman when we grabbed her. Neither of us expect that big of a surprise that it could be threatening. Annoying and onerous to dispose of, but not a threat to WCC. Could you please have the preliminaries put through the grinding mill? I don't want to go on the road for weeks with these two balls chained to my ankles, especially if there's a fight at some point."

"Of course, mein Lieter. Shall I process a full removal or just the paperwork?"

"For Bhaat, you can go all the way. I'm tired of playing the same waltz with this used-up old clutz who has no value. If the Iranian Revolutionary Guard want a spy aboard ship so bad, they can make an effort in selecting somebody who will actually not clash with the main financial backer of the expedition, namely me. For Westphalen, there are still too many unknowns that we haven't sussed out yet. Those unknowns we do know or suspect are controled, but the shadows havent yet spat out all their little beasties, so a modicum of care is necessary. However, that too has run its course; ask the other Juniors for some hands to dig the bitch's past life. She has a daughter called 'Cynthia' like my mother, who ran away from home at age 13. The old biddy was supposedly going through a divorce with the kid's biologial parent when the judge awarded her temporary custody, against all expert advise. That was widely rumored to be the reason the girl ran, that the eggheads were right and something crooked was going on in that house. So get some shovels and dig. The goods are in the paydirt, as always."

Snickering evilly at her Lord's little quip, Brutehilden tapped some apps to activate the secret, heavily encrypted web portal that would let her access the CIA and Section-7 mission rosters, personnel status, inventory and data archival. She did not know how her Master had obtain such accesses, nor did she think she would understand the method. Besides, only the results mattered. She quickly initiated the proper forms and tickets to establish the legal paper trail by which their elimination of one Aakav Bhaat would be perfectly legitimate as contractors of the US Military & Intelligence apparatus, as the deed would happen on US soil. Lucas would get the fool off-board, then his diplomatic credentials from India would become just another piece of decorative paper. For Westphalen, they would need to dispatch some uniformed Section-7 agents to give it a veneer of legitimacy thick enough to sustain whatever scrutiny the sailors and corporate attachés would try to enact.

"Was there something more, mein Herr? I do believe you have swamped me quite thoroughly for the days to come," she mock-griped while displaying a toothy smile a crocodile would appreciate.

Humming slightly to himself as he thought, the teenager replied politely "No, frau Kriegswehr, I do believe that we have covered all the plans. I shall confer with you tomorrow at a less bothersome hour. Schonen tag, mein freund."

Gleefully, the albino woman bent her powerful mind to the glorious task of scheming plots and putting whetstones to the many weapons her Lord would need sharp for the coming fight. Starting with the bank accounts and multiple ID papers needed to convince any local, state or federal authorities of whom he was, and why he had such an intersting array of 'toys' to play with in his bus. Then she had to arrange all the formal mission orders, briefs, billets and tickets for the contractors on the list Lucas had chosen for the job, and send the blasted orders before they took other projects from the WCC general jobs boards. After that, she had to assign more hands to a temporary project bureau so they could dig on all the mission orders the USA had given them, dig on the people involved, the areas concerned, and give the field team some overwatch when Brutehilden needed to take care of everything else in her job or life.

Thankfully, her employer saw her as a power broker and dispatcher, not as the actual executant of every little detail that made the company and black-ops function. He had set it up from the start that each department could generate or dissolve project bureaus for each important job that necessitated overwatch around the clock, or had a high chance of needing armed support during the mission. Since any armed intervention usually needed permits, licenses, orders or commissions from governments, and some level of legal coverture, setting up a project bureau for those jobs was the only way to go. All the regular wiretapping, surveillance, espionage and cyber-hacking jobs could be handled by foremen who managed a room with 6 to 24 agents seated at workstations, just like a dumb call-center.

Juliana Halliburton, The Red Menace

(SeaQuest – season 1 – opening theme)

Monday 10th of February, 2020; 12:25pm (noon)  
WCC, listening post #001  
Stanford University, California, USA

The young woman wore a white button-up blouse, tightly fitted dark blue jeans, worn blue sneakers and thin protective plastic goggles shaped like skiing glasses. She stood on a plastic stepstool that had insulated rubber feet and friction top so she could work safely inside the tall cabinet full of electronics without cutting power to the critical systems while they were needed. And this cabinet was always needed, no matter the time of year or events in progress. This room was the main dispatch hub for all the telephony and networking cables in the Stanford campus, including the administrations buildings, commissaries, student residences, janitorial garages and the old World War II bunkers that had been reconditioned to house the data farm servers.

Juliana was 16 years old, with smooth clear white skin, long rust-red hair that reached her waist tied in a ponytail, luminous green eyes, and luscious lips colored a deep ochre shade. She was a member of Stanford's Junior Prodigies Program, one of the success stories the school admins liked to parade in public to entice the new kids, and especially their rich, influencial parents.

Her own parents worked in the US diplomatic corps. Her 21 year old brother was 'regular' but had been accepted in the US-DC to work alongside their parents. Their 13 year old sister had gotten a scholarship to the Vienna Conservatory of Arts as an acclaimed violonist. All-in-all, Juliana was a clean, presentable representative of the SJPP that was regularly dragged to public events by the school, with her parents and siblings commanding her to do it, regardless of her feelings on the matter. No, all that mattered to them was their own name and appearances being bandied about, not Juliana's happiness. The fact she felt like a cheap slut when the university paraded her at those fundraising or publicity events had never mattered to anybody.

Not until she met Lucas Wolenczak.

The boy was a genuine polymath and polyglot, with a sense of business and vengeful moral compass that aligned with her own sense of punitive justice quite nicely. She did a few cybernetics contracts for his company, wiretapping or small hacks between the ages of 11 and 13, when he officially recruited her for WCC as an internal employee in 2017 Her special brand of mentality was needed for several jobs, and he didn't want ot lose her to another agency. Getting a list of targets that were sanctioned by the CIA as 'actionable enemies' garanteed that Juliana would sign on with him.

Juliana specialized in cybernetics, programming, networking, telephony, satellite management and old Cold War epoch Russian tech that was now deemed obsolete. She had secondary specialties in politics, diplomacy, world history and planetary economics. She spoke, read, wrote and signed seven languages plus the five computer languages she used with the tech part of her work.

Juliana had gotten the nickname 'The Red Menace' because she had some stunningly beautiful red hair that served as a visual warning for the boiling, fiery temper inside. That, and she was proud to boast about precipitating the Venezuela oil refinery blaze of 2017, the Turkish propane explosion of 2018, the great blazing kerosene river of India in 2019, and a few other fiery messes around the globe. Her silent terror attacks through cyberspace had killed only a few hundred people, but destroyed close to 4 trillion dollars worth of property, while slowing down entire countries to the pace of a sleeping snail.

She was called 'Red Menace' because she liked to burn things, but unlike conventional arsonists, she didn't get off sexually from the act or spectacle. In fact, she rather saw the process with the clinical detachment of a lab tech who was incinerating biological waste after the amputation of gangrenous limbs. Juliana was a -cleanser- type of hacker, who wanted to remove all the worthless shite that stained the planet, causing thousands in the diplomatic services and military to waste away decades of life that should have been dedicated to their children, family, and communtiy, not to criminals and terrorists in foreign countries that had no government to speak of.

As things were, she was rarely given a target to strike because she tended to go a bit overboard when applying her brand of cleansing justice. She was like radiation therapy; always useful, but also always hurtful. So, a lot of her time not in official school classes was spent like today, doing a job for WCC that was stipulated as "standard network hardware upgrades" on the work ticket the university agreed when they passed the contract with Lucas. As if! The blond mongrel had her installing upgrades, alright, but each piece of wiring had a meta-trail embedder chip at each plug, and each network card or hub she replaced had wiretapping chipsets & softwares built-in. Even the bloody back-up batteries had spy-stuff in them so that all machines plugged to them to get their emergency 30 minutes of leeway to do a safe shutdown in power outages would be thoroughly virulated and copied as they turned off.

Her boss was a traitorous bastard. With a great big 'B' on that.

Gawds but she loooooved it when he was shafting the bigwigs like that!

People at large didn't realize just how bad social and living conditions truly were on the Stanford campus, if you were under a certain age, or if you were a woman of any age or type. Besides the usual chauvinist, machist mentality still common to most American Ivy League school establishments, there were several sub-groups who considered the campus to be party central or worse, hunting grounds. The bloody mental disease called 'rape culture' was prevalent, because toxic masculinity was maintained alive and well by several cretins preaching about femenazies and christian reactive-conservatism.

So, the wiretapping she was installing wasn't just to do some corporate espionage, or steal research projects, or get a prominent position during negotiations with the board at the next contract talks. It was mostly to secure the employees and friends of WCC, plus the population at large, by digging up the secrets of the numerous perverts hiding as teachers, assistants, janitors or admins all around the vast campus for decades. What the California DoJ wouldn't do, their hackers would.

When she received the email from Brutehilden Kriegswehr, she knew something nasty was under way.

Lucas himself had called for her on a remote project in New Hampshire. Damn, but this bitch was gonna bite them all in the ass. If The Red Menace had to be local, this couldn't end well.

Less than four hours later saw Juliana passing the gates of WCC's Palo Alto compound with her bags, ready to join the fight against crapulence and turpitude again.

Nicolas 'Nick' Hobbarth, The Wolfman

(SeaQuest – season 1 – opening theme)

Monday 10th of February, 2020; 12:25pm (noon)  
WCC, biologicals annex  
Palo Alto, California, USA

The young man wore a clean white lab coat that clashed with his attire of fitted brown denim jeans, brown flannel shirt, beige work boots and beige leather gloves. He needed the sturdy clothes for his research project that occupied him when he wasn't doing a cyber-hacking job for WCC; the study of dogs and wolves, individually and as packs. The teenager was studying for a technological means of translating the brain impulses of canines into electronic signals that could then be spoken aloud by a vocoder.

The boy was 16 years old, caucasian white with a sprinkling of freckles on his face, short russet hair and hazel eyes. He was six feet tall and muscular in a very lean way that was explained by his hobbies of track & free running, swimming and bicycling. He was more at ease outside than indoors, but was quite capable of spending prolonged periods bent over a computer if it meant inflicting pain, shame and misery on somebody else. Nick wasn't a cyber-terrorist like Juliana though; he preferred digging up a person's hidden secrets and airing them out in public, usually sending everything anonymously to police and media in one fell swoop.

Nick had been badly injured on a psychological level when he was a young child. His tormentor was a pedophile that exclusively raped girls. Nick became aware of the man's crimes against his younger sister when they were 6 and 4. The man threatened to kill the girl and put her body in his bed while he slept if he didn't stay silent about what he knew. So, for three more years, the foul old crone who was the father of their mother, kept on doing his immoral acts, right under their own roof where they lived. Then, whe he started experiencing the first symptoms of Alzeihmer's disease, the bastard decided to clean away the proofs of his crimes before they became known.

Poor 9 year old Nick found his 7 year old sister's corpse in his bed after coming back from the school's track meet, one dreary autumn saturday afternoon. He was never the same. Firstly, he denounced his grand-father, which made the police investigate the family as a whole. They arrested his mother when they discovered that she had placed nanny-cams in the house to watch over the kids when she and her husband were out for any reason. She had known, but never said anything, never done anything to protect her daughter.

In a moment that would scar Nick for life, she had declared "Daddy made me a woman when I was young, and it made me good for Dennis, so we had two kids together. I just thought that he would make Nancy a good woman too, so she'd be happy with her husband when she met him." His mother had been victimized by the defective crud, but she never told, so he continued for decades, hurting and destroying everything he touched, just to appease the itch in his crotch.

His parent divorced, his mother committing suicide in jail a year later. His father loved him as much as he could but was damaged as well. When his mental aptitudes unlocked because he was drowning himself in schoolwork and any sorts of studies just to escape reality, Stanford approached them.

Nick was registered at Stanford as an expert cyberneticist specializing in archival systems, back-up & retrieval automation, data-mining, statistical modeling, documentary authentification, audio-video authentification, network pathway meta-analytics, and cyber-forensics. He slowly developed a strong love for dogs on the side as a coping mechanism that had been suggested by his therapist, to relieve stress and avoid chemical medication when he was struck by bouts of depression. That attachment to canines of all sorts made him branch out into cyber-linguistics and vetenarian technologies so that he could better take care of his life-friend, a male white huskie named 'Glazier' he got at age 11.

Nick met Lucas Wolenczak when he was 10 years old, in the first month he attended the SJPP. The young boy was presented as one of the best, most promising members of the program. On blind faith alone, his dad Dennis encouraged him to make friends with the slightly built blond child, and try to get some fresh air too, instead of drowning himself in the letters and numbers of cyberspace.

Lucas did that, yes, because he knew that you needed a fresh, well rested body to have an equally fresh and rested mind capable of processing complex problems. So they helped each other. Nick showed Lucas about being friends with other people in general and kids in particular, and taught him about loving animals when he got Glazier in his life as a small pup. Lucas taught him about the deeper math involved in programming in older languages and more esoteric methods of locking files, and showed him the power of the media by having him visit WCC's public relations and litigation departments.

It was no surprise to either when Nick began to actively pursue perverts from the anonymous depths of cyberspace, doxxing them at work, at home, in the media and the police with an aggressive drive that matched Lucas' own. While Nick was not one for direct physical confrontation, he never shied away from digging through crass, no matter how dirty, shameful, depraved or inhumane it turned out.

He always thought of the victims he could save from this life, once the problem was aired out to view.

That was his type; the remote savior, the distant helper.

The young boy had never hacked a system for money until he had a conversation with Lucas about the ghost accounts and slush funds he saw when he was hunting for documents to unearth or secrets to expose publicly. Sometimes, those bank informations were much less secure, and far less watched, than the material proofs of perversions, sex crimes and human enslavement they were diging after. It was Lucas, ever business-minded Lucas, who explained to Nick that he had been seizing and rerouting those accounts elsewhere when he found them on his own cyber-dives, putting the money to work at building the WCC company and making it such a phenomenal weapon agains their common enemies. Lucas had simply never thought to ask Nick to specifically commit this part of the job because it wasn't part of his original accord, and Nick could see it as simple bank robbery rather than disarming the criminals. So, Lucas had built a small, dedicated sub-department who were in charge specifically of finding, digging up and seizing the financial assets of all the targets exposed publicly by people like Nick and the others who had similar mandates.

The boy had accepted the explanation and underlying logic; in all companies, specialists did a limited but high value job while generalists did a bit of everything. He was a specialist who did the difficult part of exhuming the buried treasures, then another person would dismantle and evaluate the pieces before sending each morsel to another whose task was to either sell or invest the particular type of data, money, stocks, property, etc... so that the WCC Group could make a profit and continue saving lives.

The fact the employees got salaries, pensions, benefits and 'goodies' was all good for the young child. They would be putting that ill-gotten money to much better uses than the pervs, thugs and mafia bosses would ever imagine.

So, when he wasn't hot on the trail of the latest pedo-porn film to spread through the web, or swimming up the cash-flow of some corrupt bureaucrat, the young man took care of WCC's corporative pets. It was an idea he'd pitched to the Employee Entertainment department. The company could have some living animals like dogs, cats, birds, and a few sizeable reptiles, that would serve as therapeutic companions for those who got a medical prescription, or were placed in special community 'play pens' so that the employees could go pet and play with them to destress. Like the thematic 'cat cafe' and others of the sort that were cropping up all over the world for the last two decades.

The idea was accepted by the board of directors (meaning Lucas) and so the company built a veterinary annex where all the animals each had a common habitat with individual miniature cabins -not cages!- all joined to the common area with a closing door the creature could open on their own. This was done via the implanted RF-ID chip each creature had. The annex soon became a hub of activity for entertainment, therapy, animal studies and veterinary medicine by offering limited, severely screened access to members of Stanford's Young Prodigies. This of course made a publicity coup for WCC and Lucas, garnered much support from the school community, and allowed Lucas to make friends with the other kids easier as the parents were far less suspicious of a little tyke that loved animals, and his little human friends too, so much.

Nick was snorting in dark amusement as he fed some raw beef meat to a pair of domesticated brown wolves by dumping it in a stainless steel trough in the common lupine habitat. Their timber wolf and juvenile grey wolf were in the play pen with people so they'd eat a bit later on, when their shift was over. Nick and the vet staff always made certain the animals didn't get tired out or emotionally drained by their contact with people. The play pen staffers were also on the lookout for signs that one of the visitors was in a depressive mood or having troubles that needed intervention, to call the psych staff when needed.

Lucas took care of his people a lot. He believed firmly in 'The rescuer's principle' that said if you get knocked out or injured, you can't save yourself and therefore can't save anybody else. That was the driving force behind how he conceived the employees' medical benefits and in-house support system, including making external partnerships like the Stanford Faculty & Student clinic to make certain his people and their families would be cared for, even if his own internal clinic couldn't suffice.

As the teenager was rinsing the netal bowl he had used to prepare and transport the meat, he received an emergency scrambled email from Brutehilden Kriegswehr. Lucas was building a team for a job on the east coast, two to four weeks in view. Drying his hands with disposable paper towels, the youth read through the details about pollution and reported mutations with a grimface. No wonder Luke wanted him cooped up in the bus & rig for a month. He sent back the code to accept the job, then went to the annex supervisor to inform him he had been assigned to a field team. Being an old pro at this job, an old CIA retiree who used a service dog to move around, the woman had waved him off, pointing at her monitor where an official email from the task-attribution portal had come in. Exchanging a few last pleasantries, Nick dumped his lab coat in the communal hamper, cleared out his locker and went to his appartment to prepare his go-bag and necessities according to the job briefing.

They were leaving tomorrow morning, but he preferred to be in advance. Less stress on the landing pad, and all that. Plus, he had to prepare Glazier as the dog was coming with them, a request made by Lucas directly in the job brief.

Mitchell Pickering, The 'Biff'

(SeaQuest – season 1 – opening theme)

Monday 10th of February, 2020; 12:25pm (noon)  
WCC garage & manufacturing annex  
Palo Alto, California, USA

The young man stood a good six feet tall, but built lean and mean, at 180 pounds of wiry, nervous muscles. He had earth-brown hair, dark brown eyes, caucasian white skin very slightly pocked by some well healed childhood ailment, and an overall aura of doubt, weariness and disbelief about him. He was dressed down for the dirty, greasy job he was doing; barechested with a mechanic's drab blue jumpsuit covering his lower half, held in place by a belt and wrapping the sleeves around his waist. Brown work boots and thin insulated leather gloves completed his limited attire for now.

The 18 year old was presently working on filling and servicing his friend/employer's main means of moving around for jobs, whichever type he got called for : the bus & rig. Or, to be more exact, two forty foot long wheeled, motorized pieces of doomsday on steroids. Biff had helped the kid design and build the damned thing, four years ago, when he joined the WCC as a spare mechanic for the newly installed motorpool.

Yeah, meachanic. They called it that to be polite in front of the kiddies and their parents.

Mitchell Pickering had been 10 years old when he joined the Stanford Juvenile Prodigies Program, mostly under pressure from his father who was a born workaholic without any concept of what vacations, down time, week-ends or 'ME' time meant. The man wasn't corrupt, dishonest or criminalised in any way. But he was well and truly drowning in the prosperity gospels and evangelical bitchcrap that his preacher kept pushing on all the community they lived in. So, living in far away Brownsville, in south Texas, meant that everyhing around was conservative and followed the will of the preacher, or else suffered in public for it.

Mitchell suffered a lot.

His mother tried to protect him as much as a woman without any extended family could.

His father wasn't an aggressive man, but he had his parents, uncles & aunts with their broods, brothers & sisters-in-law with their lots of nephews and nieces, and all together that meant a whole lot of peer pressure to resist when some stupid idea or other did the rounds.

The preacher himself was a different story entirely. He wasn't kin to them, so he didn't give a fuck for the welfare of any child he talked about, only that said child obeyed silently or was submitted to public punishment by his parents to instill humility. The preacher's method for getting his jollies off in public without ever touching a child was to have the oldest male relative of said kid administer the beating during mass, on the dais of the altar, in full view of the whole townfolk. Needless to say it was always bare-butt spankings that were the required penance, be it boy or girl, 1 year old or 18 years old, it didn't matter. During the years Mitch had lived there, he had even seen a few 19 and 20 year olds be brought up on charges of 'unchristian thought' or 'heathen behavior' to be beaten by their families, even if they were legally adults that lived outside the parents' house.

The priest was not a pedophile in the pure sense as he had no real age preference for his prurience. He was mostly a dominant, or domme, who orgasmed at seeing proofs of his own power and authority over another person. He targeted mostly the younger kids because it was socially acceptable, and Texas was very much a 'spanking state' where paddling in all schools, churches, and even orphanages or social services group homes, was the established norm. No adult ever questioned that a child or teenager deserved a good, thorough spanking of their bare ass to make them better Americans, and above all else, better christians who were closer to god on his cross.

Stupid, defective fucktards the lot of them!

So, even though his father hadn't been abusive or prone to hitting, his idiot grand-pa and uncles certainly were the kinds to always speak about the virtues of the Rod and it's "beautiful, healthy place of honor" in the life of dutiful christian children. Bunch of pervs, them too. So, even when his dad didn't think he deserved a thrashing, pretty much every other male in the family did, and were prompt to denounce little Mitch to the preacher so that they could have their cock-giggling spectacle the coming Sunday.

Mitchell got beaten in that damned church so many times he couldn't rightly tell you how many it was without coming short on the number. And the worse part was that his grand-pa and uncles always bruised him or made him bleed because they hit so hard, and so many times, with the depraved leather strap the preacher kept on the altar all the time. The fucking thing had a wooden handle, two feet of rawhide length, and a steel crucifix decoration riveted in the flailing end that hit the victim. The priest NEVER allowed anybody to punish the child-victim with anything else in his presence. It just wouldn't count as a real christian penance if it weren't done with the -proper- instrument of correction, and the 'blood tithe of contrition' wasn't given to god from it.

Stupid, defective fucktards the lot of them! Did he mention that?

At one point, his dad must have realized his grand-pa and uncles weren't right in the head no more, cuz he used some of his privileged connections from his oil drilling company to have Mitch tested by big-wigs from up in Stanford, in California. Or maybe it's cuz he saw that his older nephews were starting in on their own kids, the way they all did with Mitch, that finally woke him up to how sick the whole town was? They certainly wern't sane anymore, Biff could tell you that.

Anyways, the little 10 year old was tested and -lo and behold!- was declared an emerging genius. None of his male relatives took well to that news, as you can imagine. As a genuinely certified intellect, the kid would have to be sent to boarding school, away from the grand-pa, uncles and cousins who wouldn't be able to flagellate him to their perverted, lubricitous contentment anymore. Maybe that was his parents' wish all along?

Anyways, he was tested as extremely gifted for measures, volumes, time management, project management, chemistry, mechanics, engineering and electronics. He was neither gifted nor interested in medicine which was a downer for a few like his mom. He had no aptitudes for social sciences or arts, but nobody cared for those anyways. The testers said he could always develop his business acumen and political inclinations as he grew older, for which the foundations laid by his family would be determinant. Since only the will of his parents could actually affect where he was placed for schooling or vacation camps, the rest of the family bit their fingertips as they saw their little victim shipped off to ultra-liberal California, never to come back again.

And of he did come back, he'd bring a fucking cistern of liquid rat poison to purge the place.

Mitch had spent his first four years in the SJPP as a ghost, doing well in his studies but being ignored by the rest of the students. That wasn't unusual as most of Stanford's young adults and faculty didn't always know what to do or how to react when addressing a juvenile super-genius who deserved the teaching assistant's job better than the guy who had it. The other problem Mitch had was that he followed the studies script layed out for him only in the first year. After that, his true inclinations started to show; en enjoyed mechanics and structures, so he reoriented towards vehicular engineering and architecture. He enjoyed chemistry, but opted to go the varied route through molecular modeling and industrial chemical R&D rather than the traditional 'chemistry + biochemistry + specialties' most students did as it was an easier plan to digest.

At age 12 he developped an extreme affinity for thermodynamics and everything combustible or incinerable. By age 13 he had developped a complementary affinity for explosives and guns that made him formally study the mechanics and engineering of guns for the purpose of becoming an R&D tech in one of the many massive firms that develop weapons for the US armed services and police. He won the NRA's 2016 juvenile gunsmith of the year award and passed on Fox News for the ceremony that was done at the NRA's national museum of firearms, not far from Washington DC. It was one of the most happy family moments he could ever remember living.

Then it all came crashing down.

In late 2016, after the award ceremony, meeting the Brownsville congressmen with his family and going back to Stanford, Mitch got the call he dreaded. His poor beleaguered mother had committed suicide by overdose of prescription pills just one week after seeing him. Her depression meds weren't working anymore for a while, but she never told anybody. She'd always been ashamed she needed them to be able to live in the corrupt, defective environmment her husband's family dwelled in. She was even more ashamed she had never taken him on the road to flee from the sick perverts before he was injured and traumatized as he had been. She had sent him a letter by the regular post to say a few private things; it arrived three days after the fatidic call by his dad.

His grand-pa and uncles were now clamoring for the boy to come back home. They even accused him of being the reason his mom died, saying that if he'd been present to support her she would have been able to repent her sins and endure the life Jesus wanted her to have. At that time, Mitch already worked with Lucas Wolenczak as an external contractor for small jobs or R&D supplements. Lucas gave Mitch the way out he needed by hiring him full-time, and supplying him with an appartment on the land of his corporate compound without cost so that his relatives could cut off his money as they wished, it wouldn't throw him in the streets anymore.

Because he managed to find a permanent job at age 14, nearing 15 quickly, his dad took the out of using that as proof that his boy was raised right and knew well enough on his own, without the rest of the family trying to usurp his autonomy or life choices from him. The real clincher happened when Lucas forced Mitch to undergo a full medical exam that revealed the mass of epidermal scaring on his thighs, buttocks and around the kidneys. This caused an immediate denounciation to the California DCFS, which then forwarded the reports to the Texas DCFS, which then called the Brownsville police to investigate the mess. This eventually caused the preacher, his assistants and their ecclesiastes to be arrested en-masse by the BPD and state troopers, creating a mediatic kerfuffle like the town han't seen in generations.

It also rang the death knell of any relations Mitchell could ever have with his family as many were arrested, charged and convicted of aggravated child battery with a weapon, public indecency with the nude body of a minor child, causing disfiguring scars on a child, and a few more. His grand-pa and uncles were each given 15 to 25 in federal penitenciary, many of his male cousins were given 6 to 12 years in state corrections, and many of the womenfolk were put in county jail for 12 months to 4 years, with court mandated psychiatric care for the trauma they suffered at the hands of the turpid priest, their male kin and life at large.

That was when Mitchell Pickering obtained his foul nickname of 'Biff'.

In an act of utter rage at seeing his god-given, priest-anointed, male authority over his kin torn to shreds by the mewlings of a mere slip of a boy, the grand-father declared in the courtroom where he got sentenced that he didn't admit Mitchell as part of the Pickering bloodline anymore. He was 'Biffing' him from the family's bible and genealogic tree, casting him to the winds like foul trash until something killed him, sending him to Hell so he'd burn with the other heretics, like the judge, state's attorney and cops who done the deeds.

From that point on, Mitch told people to call him 'Biff' as an act of pride and self-affirmation over the felonious depravities of his extended kin. In the three years since they were jailed, many of the worse offenders had died in mysterious circumstances that the prison guards, police and attorneys couldn't quite figure out. Using WCC's impressive cybernetics and secret slush funds buried in the depths of the Dark Web, Lucas had helped Biff to find the records of gang members doing time in the same prisons so he could contact their compadres outside. They passed contracts against the lives of his kin through nine different gangs, for nine fake reasons so as to muddy the traces further. Nobody ever traced the process back to Biff, Lucas or WCC's systems, and they never would.

And so it was that Biff had spent the last several years living peacefully inside the walls of WCC's Palo Alto compound, studying full-time at the SJPP while also working his tail off for the company. He had finally achieved the mastery of guns, explosives, incendiaries and combat chemicals he had aimed for, alongside an impressive set of qualifications in mechanics, architecture, engineering and vehicular design for road, rail or water. His latest project was sitting half-built in the berth next to the huge bus & rig that had initiated, then cemented, the official relationship he had with WCC.

Now that he was 18 years old, he could legally drive the bloody big bus around as long as he was in the countryside. Most states would ask that he have a few more years of driving experiece with heavy weights before allowing him to drive the 90 feet long assembly inside a bustling town. He was cool with that, though. His job was to design & build deathtraps, not drive people around in them like he had nothing better to do.

As the teenager passed a dubiously shaded rag over his bare arms and chest to remove oil, grime and sweat from the hard physical work he was doing, his company phone rang with a tone that everybody who worked directly for Lucas knew to abide promptly.

Brutehilden Kriegswehr was calling him for a job. Something on the east coast with possibility of dropping a few people and burning stuff. Wow! Lucas was teaming up in person for it! Man, he wanted in on this, even if it meant four weeks in a motorized can with a bunch of snot-nosed brats. Besides, Juliana's ass was always nice to see, and Glazier had a better personality than all of them put together, including the boss in that one.

Biff dumped the dirty rag in the public hamper on his way ut of the garage annex, heading for the appartment buildings at the back of the compound, towards the sparkling blue waters of the San Francisco Bay. Snorting anew at the thought, the young male wondered what his family would say if they knew the commercial value of the suite he lived in for free, compared to their houses? Snickering happily at the morbid thought, he whistled gaily as he climbed the stairs to his floor, not in a hurry since the departure date was tomorrow morning.

The Crows and The Rats

(SeaQuest – season 1 – opening theme)

Monday 10th of February, 2020; 12:25pm (noon)  
Squamscott river trench  
Crow Trench town, New Hampshire, USA

Cawing softly in the dull weak light of the pitiful February morning, gazing idly at the snow covered sides of the wide, deep trench that was its home, the crow fluffed its feathers, making itself bigger to buffer against the slow breeze passing through the river's crack in the stone hill.

The soft caw of the one bird was soon echoed by hundreds of others who dwelled in the same riverine trench, nestled in small holes or the dank, fetid outlets of the antique sewer pipes that riddled the hill, evacuating the sludge from the rich, high standing residents by dumping it untreated in the river, to be carried through Great Bay, down the Piscataqua River and out to the ocean. It had been so for nigh on three centuries and would not change soon.

The crows did not care for the cramped, dark and confined pipes anyways, not beyond getting a few minutes of warmth when the winter winds were too strong for even the most resilient of their murder to endure in their nest-hole without help. That, and the pipes were the home of the other group that dwelled inside the hollowed hill, under the feet of the unaware humans.

The rats squeaked weakly in the feotor of the dark, lightless pipes and corridors, eeking out pitiful subsistance from the dejections of others without ever acknowledging each other. Knowing the other group was not necessary for each to do its job in Nature. Taking act of the other culture's presence in the environment was not wanted by either, as it would ruin the fragile equilibrium they had, as silent supplier and silent commensal.

The crows saw this and cawed in amusement, as they had the wide open skies and humans knew to respect their presence, alone or in vast flocking murders.

The rats knew of the crows' opinions but cared not a whit, as such vapid pride was a waste of precious time that could be spent foraging for food and the currents of warm air or fluid that occasionally passed through the dank, humid old pipes. And sometimes, the antique stone blocks, or newer but brittle bricks, could shift aside, revealing older workes, from older cultures than humanity, giving the rats access to things the crows could only pine after, and the humans would shy away from in fear.

Yes, in this dreary, snowy morning of February, the crows and the rats were at ease, each in their realm, as ordained by Nature and their own wont.

And where did humans fit, in this dark, fetid world of beasts they mostly ignore?


	3. FIRST MOVEMENTS OF WAR

The author wishes to express thanks to anyone who may read his story and encourages them to leave reviews, comments or even flame it hard. As with any who try their hand at publicly expressing an idea or story concept, all feedback is important and welcome.  
Disclaimer: I do not own SeaQuest, Star Wars, nor any other sci-fi or fantasy series, movies, comics, cartoons or news items used in this fiction as they belong to the creators or broadcasters or publishers who put them out for consumption by the public.

SeaQuest

ABSTRACT

This story takes place in season 1, a few weeks after the SeaQuest was violently boarded and taken over by Colonel Shraeder and his mercenaries. I will be modifying several elements of that episode to fit with the fic, notably that there were more mercs in the transport, they were more violent and Lucas had been significantly more reactive and aggressive when helping to safeguard the ship and crew. The modifications to the canon of many episodes will be major and showed as such, in flashbacks or during discussion between crew members.

IMPORTANT: for the purpose of keeping this story logical and relevant, the episode "Nothing but the truth" where Shraeder invades the ship is set as #2 in the season instead of playing at #14. I then follow it immediately by the "Treasures of the Tonga Trench" as #3 instead of playing #5 in the season since I need the inspection to happen quicker to set up stuff quickly and again, logically in time and space. The episode "Bad water" where Lucas, Ford, Krieg and Westphalen are adrift in a life-raft is moved to #4 and then the rest goes weird from there...

This story is Alternate Universe, several characters are OOC and there are several crossovers with many of the maritime-inspired themes and mythos. Like my other story "Justice for Lucas" this has a lot of psionics, magicks et al as such things were part & parcel of the SeaQuest canon in all three seasons. There won't be any temporal mechanics & bypasses in this story.

PS; I like flames, they're fun to read so don't hesitate to write them.

WARNING; the language level of this one is a bit trashy when we consider a story based on boats and sailors. However, as I always warn people who read my work: this language was pretty much normal in the school yard 30 years ago when I was a teenager. So, how can you have such a thin skin and be part of the same culture on the same continent if this is really that offensive to you? Where did you spend the last few decades, if you can't take a few hard words from the mouths of kids when these words have been around since before World War I?

RV'ING TO DISASTER

THIRD CHAPTER; FIRST MOVEMENTS OF WAR

I spy with my many cruel, mismatched eyes

(SeaQuest – season 1 – opening theme)

Monday 10th of February, 2020; 15:39pm  
Cromlech of Carrion  
Crow Trench, New Hampshire, USA

When you floated due south, going upstream on the Squamscott River, passed the four ancient, tall bridges that linked the two sides of Crow Trench town's upper, middle and lower plateaus, you eventually reached the rear end of the village. On the west side was the crooked outlet of a small stream that could be navigated by flatboat for several miles inland. On the east side were two smaller, much shorter streams that could barely accommodate a row boat unless it was raining hard that season.

Passed those three natural streams would be found on the eastern side a narrow, shallow canal made of fieldstones covered by a thick lining of clay, now layered in lichens, fungii, huge pumpkins and giant mushrooms large enough to sit on. The eerie ground flora was overshadowed by tall black maples that leaked noxious sap, crooked oaks from which dangled glowing mistletoe, gnarly birches and bent, twisted weeping willows whose bleached limbs looked like skeleton fingers swaying in the wind. Sniffing around between the roots and bushes were small sickly brown foxes, large slick rats and odd luminous beetles. An occasional overweight beaver with tumors growing out of its pelt would emerge from the canal to gnaw on the tree roots before disappearing back under the turgid water. And crows were everywhere, perched in bushes, low branches of trees or atop the arcane stone monoliths that dotted the landscape around Crow Trench for centuries.

This obsolete, forgotten work of earth, stone and water had been crafted to link the main Squamscott River with three small natural marsh ponds around which an important religious community had been established. The antiquated wooden cottages, lofted cattle barns, stacked harvest warehouses and thin stone docks used to serve as the vibrant, disgustingly occult and otherworldly nexus for the Cult of Carrion in the colonial areas of New England.

Emerging from the obscurity of the Slavic regions in the late 1400's, the Cult of Carrion taught many odd, occult and bizarre traditions to its worshipers, several such practices coming from different species than humans, and fearsome chaotic dimensions others than ordinary Earth. Being that the truly devout practitioners were mostly necromancers, spiritists, conjurers, beastmasters, druids, shamans and witches, was no doubt instrumental in initiating the great Witch Scare of the middle ages in eastern Europe, that traveled westwards with the cult members as they tried to evade capture and execution at the hands of christians, jews and muslims alike. Pushed harshly by the intransigeance of the Catholic Inquisition and its Protestant equivalent, the Cult of Carrion traversed to England in mid 1500's under cover of being luminaries of the Renaissance seeking to enlighten humanity across the world. By the year 1600, the entire cult had yet again been revealed for the torturous, murderous madmen they truly were, and a new exodus for survival occurred.

Hidden by foul magicks borne of human sacrifice and ill-gotten monies paid to the crewmen of the first ships to return from the New World to acquire their maps, the Cult helped to direct England's conquest of America. The senior cultists used their arcane arts to divine safer, quicker sailing routes, whilst junior members placed aboard the boats of the expeditions as carpenters or blacksmiths used potions and runes to reinforce the hulls, sails and ropes against the harsh weather. Thusly, the cultists slowly but surely insured that all of their important followers, and most of the menial ones, crossed the ocean without too many turmoils whence ordinary boats capsized, or got attacked by sea beasts and pirates.

Once arrived in the New World, the Cult rapidly effectuated a divination ritual to find the best emplacement possible for their religious rites, and so found the triad of small ponds, just a bare two miles up the Squamscott River, from Great Bay lake. The place was even more unholy and depraved for it had served as a place of human sacrifices and cannibalism for the local natives in the centuries passed, thus giving the Land its incredible charge of negative energy and dormant spirits. Quickly, the necromancers and spritists of the Cult understood that if they acted openly again, as they did in the Slavic and European countries, they would face the same reactions from the settlers who had already shown a penchant for stoning, branding, whipping and hanging heretics. Thus, the Cult established the Sanctuary in the crux between the three ponds, raising what would become known as the Cromlech of Carrion, the Vale of Noctis Nigram Aeternam, or the Glen of Perpetual Samhain, along the various generations of cultists and traders that visited the unholy site.

To protect themselves from inquisitors and vengeful relatives that wanted to punish them for their kidnappings, enslavement, ritual tortures and murders of kin, the cultists wrapped their devotional crux within many layers of subtle, delicate wards that affected the senses, mind and memories of thoses that passed through. Unlike the inflexible consecrations of the christian churches, or the reactive wards of the european wizards, the cultists used things that were slow, diffuse, barely perceptible because their touch upon the victim was so diaphanous. You could physically enter the unholy area if, by accident, you managed to resist the redirection and forgetfulness wards. You would then see, hear, smell and touch only a small portion of reality as the misperception, feebleness and paranoia wards attacked your mind. If you traveled the zone without protective amulets on your person, the Nightmare World ward and shadow magicks imbued in many totem poles, menhirs, and trophy skeletons strewn about the area would erode your mind, memories and sanity at the speed of a ant chewing through a leaf, making each minute you lived an excruciating agony.

The worse part was that you would barely remember the ghostly outlines of what you were doing, or where it happened. You would experience a similar sickening feeling of voids with blurry contours carved out of your memories or personality, as you tried desperately to figure out why you became the destitute wreck of sick, twisted flesh you now were. And the damages could become permanent, if you didn't leave the accursed zone before a certain threshold of spiritual erosion was reached. Even then, if you left before three hours elapsed, it would take three weeks for the injuries to your mind to heal, and you never got back more than 66% of what had been eroded. Geniuses could become menials inside of one night, and ordinary farmers could devolve to drooling beasts in half the time.

These formidable protections kept the small, fanatical cult safe from inquisitors and competing sects for nigh on 380 years and going. With their great Cromlech of Carrion cloaked from hostile view or intentions, the cultists figured out that they would soon perish of social isolation, poverty and inbreeding if they didn't have a manner to communicate with other groups. The method of contact had to be safe, and not bring people back to their unholy abbey, or else all would be lost. And so, the idea of building Crow Trench town was born.

According to native legends, the crack in the stony hillock where the Squam-Satsha River passed had always been a breeding ground for the huge black crows that infested the region by the thousands. The strategic position of the hillock on the lake's shore, the height of the upper plateau at 300 feet above Great Bay, the abundance of fresh flowing water all year long, and the presence of odd minerals in the mound made it perfect.

The cultists designed a town plan that was not square nor symmetrical, unlike the romans or more recent catholic church planners tried to do. Instead, they created a small labyrinth of wide but crooked boulevards, curving narrow avenues, and hook-turn alleys that dead-ended at small, darkly ominous parks with an obnoxiously looming statue of some occult figuration. They also willingly made it that you had to climb up the town's plateaus by the outer sides, along continuous earthwork ramps that started south, near the two small streams that were coming into the larger river face-to-face. From that point, you could leisurely follow the dirt roads to reach each of the four main sectors of Crow Trench, or else take the outer forks in the roads to stay on the mainland, to contour the hillock for reaching the farmsteads, lower shores, and beach where the fishing docks were built.

Once on a plateau of the town, you could cross over the river by one of the four stone block bridges, built in the heavy eastern european style, with a pair of square gabled towers on each side. The bridges served to connect the plateaus without having to go down and use a ferry-barge, thus losing almost an entire day just to cross town for some daily trades or family affairs. The thickly built, heavily built bridges could also serve as defensive keeps to interdict passage on the river beneath them, if a force were to try and push boats up the current to attack the Cult of Carrion at its abbatial grounds.

Over the centuries, the town of Crow Trench has modernized almost nothing of its esthetics, the appearance remaining that of a late 1600's English settlement, except that the origianl wooden houses were slowly replaced by stone or brick façades over steel structures as those were sturdier against winter and animals. Also, runes and wards applied to stones, bricks, and baked clay tiles, were easier to set or configure, and stayed active much longer in case of bad maintenance, or combat damage. As the epochs of humanity passed, the settlers of Crow Trench became more and more mundane, ordinary civilians far removed from any of the arcane, otherworldly doings of the Cult. This meant they eventually elected aldermen and a burgmeister that were more openminded towards the Renaissance, the Industrial Revolution, and the happenings of the vast world. They allowed further upgrades to the town's buildings and infrastructures, as long as the esthetics remained 'old world charm' to attract tourists from the rest of the state, and not jolt the ancient rich families that controled the land.

This resulted in accepting into the makeup of their odd, quirky little hamlet on the hillock novelties like sewer tunnels under the houses to evacuate wastes in the early 1700's, and aqueducts to bring fresh water up to the nice, rich citizens of the elevated plateaus before 1800 was rung in. The poor who lived on the beaches and shores, inside the shadowed riverine trench, or on the mainland, around the outskirts of the small rocky mound, would get sewers and flowing water many decades later, by 1833. When the colonies of New England adopted gas like the mother country had, Crow Trench devised plans to build municipal cistern-bunkers to sell the citizens the naphte, kerosene or gas they wanted instead of the traditional wood and coal offered by private companies. Soon enough, by 1858, it was the town council who sold all the residential fuels you could safely employ. When the fandangled new steam engines were discovered, the council voted in 1870 to have plans drawn for an aqueduct pump house, and later in 1877 for two sewage pumping stations to divert wastes from the river that really looked and smelled like a charnel pit at the time.

Steamboats, trains, cars & gasoline, electricity, radio, television, computers & networks were all gladly accepted by the population of Crow Trench, who had long since forgotten whence they came from, and what their true purpose was supposed to be. They were meant to serve as façade of respectability for the open public, to allow the Cult of Carrion to interact with the wider world without fear of hostile reactions to their odious, horrifying rituals of pain, murder, and profanation of the soul. As the years became decades, that turned to centuries, the population lost its connection to the cult and its arcane arts. They degraded into simple, mundane civilians, devoid of magic powers, and without any secret lores to pass unto their children during the dark sabbats or high rituals of necromancy.

{ SQ } --- { The Lord High Abbot } --- { SQ }

(Gargoyles – opening theme)

While the early February 2020 winter climate covered the New Hampshire countryside under its thick, velvety blanket of pure white snow, a monstruous creature of aberrant magicks turned its grotesque features towards the south, to Salem, in Massachusetts, where a splinter group of the cult had established itself, only to be found out and exterminated by the puritans. The deformed being looked humanoid from afar, but lost all pretense of human life when seen from arm's reach. It reeked of decayed meat while a perpetual cloud of diverse flies hovered around his fetid presence. The deep hood could only blur, but not hide, the asymmetrical shape of the canting head, nor did the thick cult robes hide the slanting posture, lombar hump, uneven sized arms, or clearly pronounced limp in the left leg that caused the entity to move in a painfully slow, shambling gait. When facing the cultists that stood or knelt around the dais according to their station, the darkness inside the hood hid all facial features except for the fact that there were more than two colored spots looking unto the assembly.

The Lord High Abbot had more than two eyes, unlike normal humans.

Nobody knew just how far his magic-induced changes went, but everybody in the religious sect knew he had plenty of arcane lores and physical powers to call upon in a fight. He (It?) had survived through repeated attempts by lesser priests and petty nobles of their community to usurp his position over the last 182 years. These profanations of his flesh and soul must surely be unholy, as their deities granted them only to the truly devout. Aiming the mismatched shapes and colors of his 11 eyes (he had shown up to 19, once) upon the spell users of the group, he implanted a psionic image in their minds.

"In the names of Habberath, Malar, Jold'haxe and Shar, unholy gods of our creed, do I command you!" whispered sibbilantly the inhuman, polytonal voice of the priest. Like a choir of cacophony, the discordant voice insinuated itself phonetically, vibrationally and psychically into the very being of each cultist, follower or anointed visitor present. "I have seen across the past, the present, and the divergent roads of the possible futures. I have beholden the coming of a great beast, made of flesh and metal, that would feed in our Great Bay for many moons, curtailing our will, our worship, and our trades, unless we manage to repel it from our Land."

Allowing the lesser people to whisper harshly amongst themselves for a few seconds, the Abbot raised an arm that ended more in a clump of short, stubby tentacles than fingers, calling for silence. "You have received the image of the beast. Hunt down and kill its minions, and it will leave us. The real threat comes from a different quarter. A boy, a young boy, barely able to sire children himself, comes to us, devoid of any arcane might or occult lores to battle us. But hear and fear this, devout worshipers! He does not come empty handed! My many eyes have seen the truth of this depravity! He comes bearing steel, fire, poison, and the strengths of a thousand men under his lash! The great divinities have shown me, in their twisted, unnatural ways, the coming of a true Lord of Shadows amongst menfolk!"

One of the non-priestly nobles who served as merchants and contacts with regular humanity hummed in thought, asking "A simple soldier then, but with his own monies and mercenaries? Is that the threat coming to our hidden glen? Such men are usually easy enough to bribe out of their aggressive stance towards our community. They are even easier to convince, when showed the power and greatness of our many, unnatural patrons and the dimensions they dwell in. What mundane human is it, that ever managed to resist the transformations of Habberath, the beasts of Malar, the violence of Jold'haxe, or the ethereal shadow magicks of Shar, Mistress of the Black Moon and the Hour of Midnight?"

Laughing hollowly, the Lord High Abbot replied simply "He has been hunting, finding and killing our members for nigh on six years already. Without knowing, without seeing the greater scheme ordained by our dark patrons, but several HUNDREDS of our community and no less than TWENTY of our priesthood have fallen to his hand, or his hirelings. The war is already in progress, and now he comes to our shores, hiding as a mere juvenile prodigy who purveys technology to those willing to pay. A friend of merchants and governments alike, he claims, as he parades his impudence openly. Our survival as an organized religion demands he be stopped, and our gods command that he be sacrificed in ritual to absorb his mind, life, and soul. To unholy war you will go victoriously, or perish on his sword as defenseless prey butchered for their meats; that is your choice!"

Silent nods of acquiescence followed the order. So long as their private divinations and entreaties to the gods did not show them a private, personal path to tread instead. Malar and Jold'haxe were patrons of The Hunt and Survival of the Fittest respectively, and neither divinity tolerated weaklings or mindless followers for long. If you wanted advancement, if you had dreams or ambitions, you had to fight for them and seize the prey when it crossed your line of fire. Those who did not dare, those who held back from conflict or violence, only served as meat to eat, or as sacrifices for the altar and pit. And yet, whomever this boy-child was that was their enemy, they would respect him greatly. He was a leader of men, a person of means and status, and a master of shadows, espionage and warfare. No, despite the vitriol spewed by the Abbot this morning, the priests, nobles, lesser cultists and anointed associates would not disrespect this new enemy. By the very words of the divinities, that attitude would only lead to their common doom, given how strong their foe was.

Cleaning house

(SeaQuest – season 1 – opening theme)

Monday 10th of February, 2020; 16:01pm  
SeaQuest DVS 6000  
Norfolk, Virginia, USA

"Well, it's a good thing we're near Norfolk, innit?" asked Lucas as he walked onto the sea-deck with a wide toothy smile reminiscent of a shark about to feed. And wouldn't you know; his prey was in sight.

"What are you doing here? Miscreant child! Answer the adults when they command you!" shouted the high flutey voice of Aakav Bhaat as he tried to stand taller and more impressing to offset his diminutive stature of 5' 1". The fact he was so much shorter than Lucas was a clear source of upset and rancor to him, fueling his vitriolic rants to even worse distemperment, especially when the teenager standing near enough forced Bhaat to realize the fact he could not loom over the boy to intimidate him.

Said child was dressed strangely for his habits. Normally, Lucas wore khakis or dark purple jeans with a gray T-shirt and some sort of flannel shirt on top. Business-casual was his norm, everyday of the year, or so it seemed. Now, the young man wore dark blue cargo pants with a solid matte blue closed button-down shirt and heavy black combat boots. The belt full of tools at his waist was new as well, and nobody ever saw him use a hatchet or billy-club before.

Now smirking evilly, the adolescent marched right up to doctor Bhaat's face and looked down on the shorter man, making certain everyone on deck saw the difference of body type and height, and the real power that Lucas Wolenczak hid most of the time. Bhaat was upset even worse; in his weak mind, boys should always look down in fear of punishment when an adult was present or spoke to them. That this boy not only looked straight at his face but also had the gall to walk up to him and block his way in challenge like this was insupportable.

Forgetting he wasn't in his homeland of India, or isolated in his quarters away from public view, the enraged bigot tried to hit the taller youth across the face with an open handed slap.

The hit never landed.

Lucas blocked the attacking limb with his left arm, using the right arm to unlimber the billy club to ram it's pommel cap horizontally in the older male thorax, hard enough to make him take an involuntary step back in fear, pain and stupor that the boy retaliated against his disciplining by an adult. The traitor was never trained for combat, never attended military academy as a child, and was used to a very soft, sheltered life in a good sector of India, well away from slums, beggars or thugs. He had no preparation for fighting anything, not even a child, so against an armed, determined opponent he did what he could; he folded by making a spectacle of the act.

"He attacks me!" whined the elderly male with great big tears rolling down his face all of a sudden, like a theater actor during a stage play. "I tried to stop him from committing damages to my work and he hit me! Look, all of you's! The delinquent attacks my poor, defenseless person! Call security! I was victimized I tell you's! Call for help against the vile thug!"

Replying in lightly accentuated Sanskrit, Lucas called the man's bluff to his face "You go right on ahead, old fool! Call security, it'll save me the trouble. And while you're at it, you can explain to them and your government's rep why you've been selling state secrets about India's nuclear program and high energy systems to Iran for petty cash to pay your whores and poppy sap addiction! Traitor!"

Paling dramatically under the brown tone of his skin, the old crone was so struck with fear that he forgot to speak English, trying to plead with Lucas in Sanskrit, offering small token gifts, ridicule amounts of petty cash and worthless letters of introductions to the Indian ambassy in Washington DC so the boy could get a contract or two. The old man was actively backing away from the boy, waving his hands defensively in front of himself, trying to ward off the evil procreate that so disrespected elders and wise men, when his back hit the workbench, halting his rearwards escape.

Forgetting all about the sea-deck's security cameras that always recorded everything, or the living witnesses who could testify, the man switched back to English as he attempted again to purchase enough time to flee the rampaging teenaged brute and find a quiet spot from which to warn his Iranian contacts that he had been uncovered. Alas, his offer of letting Lucas mate with his 12 year old niece, free of charge since his brother owed him a small favor for past services, almost saw his head separate from his shouders as the boy reacted badly, pulling out his hatchet with violence in mind.

"LUCAS Wolenczak!" a shrill voice resounded across the open sea-deck, stratling everybody to a stop, including the two antagonists. Kristin Westphalen began ranting wildly about wild boys, delinquents, Borstal schools, canings, breaking the will of boys along with their backs, and finally having enough proofs to get some justice aboard ship as she power-walked from her office doorway.

As she came abreast of doctor Bhaat, the middle-aged woman was shocked to see the tools and armaments on the boy's body, and the fact he actually held a hatchet and billy-club in attack posture as he waited for her to finish her intervention. He most certainly did not look cowed or respectful of her, Aakav Bhaat, or anybody else at the moment, which irked her beyond compare.

She KNEW that his so called diplomas from Stanford were fakes. She KNEW that he had no qualifications to be in the ship as a scientist. She KNEW that he was stealing the place of a truly deserving doctor with his shenanigans that nobody else saw through. She KNEW that he was stealing materials and scientific achievements from the sea-deck, as attested by poor, put-upon doctors Bhaat, Il-Faisad and Lyu. She KNEW that he lied, faked and defrauded through computers so that nobody could see the fullness of his miscreance, his crimes and his overall unruly depravity.

She KNEW.

She had no material proofs, just beliefs.

She had no credible witnesses, just a trio of ageist, racist, classist bigots who lied.

She never looked at camera recordings as she KNEW that the boy corrupted or faked them.

She never asked for information outside of the ship because she already KNEW the answers.

And with such a solid belief/knowledge in her mind, the woman tried to do as Aakav Bhaat had failed to do a minute ago; she tried to slap down the boy into submissiveness to her will. As he had done with the Hindu traitor, Lucas blocked her very slow, very predictible attacking arm, but had to use his right arm holding the club since she was placed on that side of the confrontating males. As he blocked her slapping movement, he swung his left arm holding the hatchet, very slowly and carefully, passing the steel blade right under the shrewish woman's chin, close enough that she felt the cold metal on her skin. As expected, she fell backwards into the work bench in fear for her life, her left hand clutching her throat as if she were bleeding to death, despite not having been touched.

Now standing clear of obstructions or enemies, Lucas smirked nastily, holding both weapons ready in front of him, asking loud enough for the entire sea-deck to hear "Who wants to lose a limb, today? I have a promo just for scientists! Free concussion with any amputation! Two-for-one, people! Get 'em while they're in stock!" To whit he triggered the stun-gun built into the club, making the copper alloy pins on the longer end glow cerualean with free electrical sparks.

Climbing back to her unsteady feet with the help of Aakav Bhaat, doctor Westphalen couldn't believe her eyes as she witnessed first-hand the brazen, thuggish delinquency of the unsubmitted boy. Putting a finger to the PAL device in her lab coat pocket, she called out "Security to sea-deck! Lucas has attacked two adults with weapons unprovoked! He needs to be beaten back down to his place! Is there any man on this boat? Is there anybody at all who is adult enough to reign in this rebellious CHILD?" shrieked the woman into her communication device, to be heard throughout the ship.

A low voice replied carefully, directly from behind the work bench she was pressed against; "Yes, we can do something, doctor. But you won't like what gets done, or to whom. Crocker, arrest them both. Bhaat in solitary, Westphalen in regular. Then begin the searches of their quarters and work stations."

Walking passed the captain with four armed and armored sailors, chief Crocker nodded in solemn acceptance of his orders. The female scientist was perplexed to see the sailors aiming for her and her colleague, not the depraved criminal boy. As they raised handcuffs to bind them, Aakav Bhaat pulled out a small kriss-styled knife from his shirt sleeve, trying to scare the soldiers into letting him pass to freedom without further issue. He was shocked to see Lucas step up again with the club in defensive position while the hatchet was raised for a down-strike aimed at him if he resisted arrest.

Seeing her male colleague try to harm the sailors gave Westphalen the moral equivalent of a cold shower, then seeing the boy walk right into fighting position alongside the armed sailors made her queasy and weak in the legs. This was no ordinary delinquency anymore, it was flat out gangsterism! How could the men of this ship fall so low in their morale as to believe th spurious lies of a child over the -truths- she held in her heart as a mother, doctor and adult? Startling from her stupor at the feel of cold steel closing over her wrists, she realized she had zoned out badly enough to not feel the soldier pull her arms behind her back until he had bound her in chains like an animal. Shame and rage suffused her entire being as she was frogmarched towards the brig, not seeing how the confrontation with Bhaat ended. She did hear the sounds of heavy, unyielding batons hitting flesh as the older male shrieked his girlish flutey voice in agony, telling her well enough the results. Soon, the sounds of soldiers half-dragging the beaten scientist could be heard behind her, all the way to the cells.

She still didn't understand what went wrong in the world, or why it happened to her.

Lost to the fog of war

(SeaQuest – season 1 – opening theme)

Monday 10th of February, 2020; 17:42pm  
Portsmouth International Airport, at Pease  
Portsmouth, New Hampshire, USA

Alan Downsborough was a young Canadian from Newfoundland who had attracted the cold eyes of Lucas Wolenczak upon his existence 5 years ago. He had been 12 years old, near the end of his first year of secondary school when he should have been doing university classes, if his parents had been able to afford it. As it was, even with a bursary and subsidies from the provincial government, all they could do was send him to a local private high school and hope for the best.

Unfortunately, in Newfoundland, ALL schools are religious, be they private or public, belonging to one of 7 christian denominations that were chosen and written into the Constitutional Act when NF entered the confederacy. That meant that almost 1/5 of Alan's time was being wasted on religious faith, cathechism and prozelitytic assemblies rather than sciences, technology, or just simply looking at reality. After connecting accidentally over the web, Lucas had become aware of the boy's potential and used his company to finance his studies, in a much better private boarding school for exceptional juveniles, located in Salem, Massachusetts.

Yes, the city of witches and inquisitions. It was fitting as 17 year old Alan was shaping up to be a truly exceptional historian, sociologist, ethnologist, politologist, theologist and field archaeologist. The young man complemented his text-heavy courses with a smattering of secretarial, bureautics and bibliotheconomy classes to help him organise his homework and term papers correctly. He did do some amateur data-mining and lesser hacking on the side, when he wanted access to certain files that were hidden away in university collections or town hall vaults. He learned the techniques to make fake ID papers from Lucas, then Nick helped him to make them look good and credible so he could go to physically enter the buildings for his research. Lucas wanted him to work in his public relations & social media influencer department, which were directly his core competencies, so he gave the young man some small contracts like market analysis, opinion poll statistics and managing several lesser programming jobs in person, in Salem around the school. Already, at age 14, the kid was a better programmer than most adults nearby, so he was able to get the contacts with the bosses easily, then the reputation of WCC backing him sealed the deals. This was a good life, until now.

The teenager was a rather unobtrusive sight in the massive airport terminal where he was walking. His lean built frame, barely 150 pounds over 5' 9", pale white skin with eye and all hairs drab brown, made him disappear in the bustling crowd like a natural cloaking device or 'notice me not' spell. Alan hated large crowds like these. He was used since birth to small populations surrounded by vast forests of conifers, and even wider expanses of water that iced over in winter. Getting the email from WCC that Lucas needed an emergency on-site historian & archaeologist meant taking the chartered plane from Salem to reach Portsmouth in record time.

The private charter happened to be a UEO jet-copter doing a diplomatic mail run between NCQ, Washington DC, New York City, Toronto and Ottawa, that had been rerouted to grab him on the go, but nobody was speaking aloud about that menial detail. The two black uniforms from Section-7 in the cab certainly hadn't wanted to get involved in WCC business. Something about his boss becoming weirder than their boss at an alarming pace, or some such.

Weaklings, all of them. As if Lucas could ever be weird.

Ahem, hummm...

Better not dwell on that particular subject today, it could in fact get weird.

Like this emergency on-site job; FIVE new elements discovered in the same spot? And inside the space of twelve months? All of them by a bloody accident, too? No, Alan wasn't buying that.

The young male adjusted his winter jacket and gloves as he dragged his wheeled suitcase, the only real luggage he had brought besides the work satchel with his touchscreen laptop, company phone, PAL to connect with SeaQuest when it got in the zone, and several small office tools & supplies. His small kit for hygiene was in the wheeled case, with two changes of ordinary civilian clothes and a few emergency snacks in case he got stuck when the stores were closed, or on a country road out of town.

Instinctively making certain that the phone, multi-tool and combat flip-knife were all on his belt correctly as he set his jacket and satchel shoulder strap, the young man thought he saw somebody following him, reflected in the bay window of the duty-free boutique where he planned to buy a tote and some necessities for his stay at a local motel, near where the SeaQuest would park before entering the Piscataqua River for its mission destination. The boy discretely looked around, but didn't see anybody standing out from the crowd, not in the angle where the person should have stood to reflect in the glass, nor anywhere near him. Shrugging away the paranoia that was a contagious problem in their line of work, Alan entered the large shop, one of several in the taxless area, to find a few more personal products, refill his over-the-counter allergy meds and find a few local newspapers or magazines to start his research on the area of Portsmouth. The current hour meant he would access city hall only tomorrow at the earliest, anyways. Not to mention he needed to learn the lay of the town before he moved around, or decided if he rented a car for the duration.

Outside the shop, by the cluster of benches and drinking water fountain, an individual wearing a heavy black trench coat with a hood rimmed in black fur covering all his features stood unseen, the people walking around him, ignoring his ominous presence as if they didn't even see him. The six and a half foot tall form seemed to have a pale, lambent green blur around himself, hovering at a quarter inch above his clothes, that moved as he did, without visual effects, sound or smell. Even the few people who had pets or service animals passing next to him got no reaction from their companions about him.

The anointed ally of the Cult of Carrion had found the first victim he would offer to the altar and pit on his rise towards glory and the deeper, darker mysteries of the ethereous voids. Whelming arcane spells that no mundane human had heard spoken in centuries, the cultist placed a small but powerful tag made of shadows on the skin of the boy's face. This was invisible to any who had not trained in shadow manipulation or divinatory arts. The child himself would not sense or see it, unless he looked into an enchanted mirror that showed magic and hidden truths like Fae Glass.

Disappearing by teleportation, the foul cultist appeared in the small plexi-glass walled bus shelter, just outside the parking lot of the airport, near the taxi stand and car rental kiosks. One way or another, the child would pass here on his way out, as it was the main road into town. The cultist would follow him until they reached a quiet place for a slow, cruel interrogation and ritualistic death.

It took an hour for the teenager to make his purchases in several boutiques and walk through the long, crowded terminal building. As planned, the cultist felt his beacon coming towards him at a sedate pace, the boy opting to rent himself a station-wagon style vehicle for his stay in Portsmouth. The pale blue car left the parking lot soon enough, though the cultist didn't care. The moment his far-audience spell had let him hear which vehicle the child was chosing, he had teleported inside, to the back seat, and made himself immaterial so he could furetively ride with the boy to his shelter. It was so much easier when the victim did all the work for him, anyways.

It took one hour through the city's evening rush hour trafic going east and south, until he hit the road called Ocean Boulevard, then went due south to a point of the map called High Rock. The destination was a motel called Pebble Cove, in the small coastal hamlet of Rye, where he had rented a suite via the web-link on his laptop before leaving the airport terminal. The hospitality boasted cozy rooms with kitchenette and free Internex as well as a small built-in bistro and convenience store. More than anything else though, it was barely 200 yards from the open shoreline, directly on the Atlantic Ocean, right where SeaQuest would pass in a few hours. All he would have to do was walk to the MR shuttle for a round trip to the ship, Lucas coming back with him so they could wait for the bus & rig that were coming tomorrow.

The young man parked the car in the lot, never guessing that the criminal in the rear had already lifted from his unshielded mind most of the information he needed, inclusing the number of the room he would occupy for the night. He simply teleported there silently, to wait for his victim to arrive after he bought his dinner and a few more magazines necessary for his research assignement. The short time they would have together would be filled with the child's pain, shame and despair, much to the glory of the cultist's foul deities. All he had to do was be patient for a few more minutes.

Finding hidden treasures

(SeaQuest – season 1 – opening theme)

Monday 10th of February, 2020; 18:20pm  
SeaQuest DVS 6000  
Atlantic City, New Jersey, USA

The elderly scientist had been sitting alone in the solitary confinement cell for two hours now, after being forcibly chained, dragged and further convinced with threats to change into the heart-rending orange monstrosity of a prison jumpsuit. Now naked except for the disposable thin polyester one-piece suit devoid of pockets, feet, hands or hood, the old crone could only macerate pitifully in slence as there were no audience to cry for. Nobody was present behind the thick, solid steel valve to hear him weep his pleas, or whisper promises of riches and power in the back-country of India if they helped him escape custody.

The foul traitor was well and truly caught in a cage.

Noises came from outside, heralding the coming of many heavy booted feet marching in unison, telling him that the first interrogation would begin. He was right; the four same sailors as before were all here, just for him. He was chained behind his back, with the links going down to his ankles to restrain his ability to walk any better than a slow hobble. He could not escape, let alone run anywhere like this.

The trip to the formal interrogation room was slow but still far too quick, since it was just across the corridor from the two confinement areas, next to the security office proper. Entering the room, Bhaat's hopes fell anew as chief Crocker and captain Bridger were already present, with the Internex monitor on the wall showing a still-shot of the confrontation on the sea-deck, when he unsheated the kriss against the soldiers. Two of the sailors stayed outside, only two coming in to secure him in seated position at the table, his wrists locked to the retention bar that ran across the flat surface, and his ankles attached to a matching bar bolted to the deck plates. The hard, uncushioned chair beneath him was composed of four thick pillars topped by a single steel plate that was perforated to let fluids pass through, then bent to form the small, armless, low-backed seat. They could make him bleed, vomit, urinate and defecate all over himself, and the room could still be washed with the handy hose in the corner inside of five minutes flat, regardless of how much pain or humiliation he suffered.

His Iranian handlers had never prepared him for such horrendous eventualities. Betrayers!

"Whelp, we got you in a fine dandy pickle, Bhaat. Spying for the Iranian Revolutionary Guards, at the cost of your own homeland, the USA, NATO and the UEO Alliance. The real problem isn't how this ends for you, we already know that part." Nathan Bridger made a vague gesture with one hand as the other smoothed out the front of his uniform jacket. "The problem is that so many folks are measuring wooden boxes for your funeral, that we don't rightly know who to send you to. Would you care to hazard a guess as to how we'll choose?"

Swallowing passed a hard lump, the weak man offered pitifully "If I inform you of my contacts and activities, I get to help that choice, yes? That is how these things are, yes?" he whined in his aggravating, flutey voice. "And that is why I am not already moved to the mainland. Because I still have secrets you want. I am ameanable to sell those to you, for my life and freedom to leave without any further hardships upon my person." He was almost begging, but other than bullshit he had nothing to hold over these people, and everybody knew it.

A hard knock resounded from the door, which Crocker silently opened to let in a most unwelcome figure in these awful proceedings. Lucas Wolenczak was still dressed in combat clothes with his belt of tools, but now carried two medium-sized steel briefcases which he put on the table. Without any greetings to the sailors or prisoner, the teenager opened both cases to take out several instruments which he wired to the circuit boards in the bottom of the cases, then flipped the power on. The flat monitors built into the lid of each case activated to display the readouts the mobile sensor kits were picking up from the prisoner. As the long thin antennae vibrated and glowed, Lucas frowned curiously until a few seconds later when he smiled widely, pure amusement lighting up his youthful features as if he just got the inside joke at last.

Turning to the officers, he waved at Bhaat's face, saying "It's plain as the light of day. The source of the signals is right there, in his face. Or more specifically, it's braided in his beard. That goatee may be a normal steeple of Hindu religious life for men, it doesn't stop traitors and criminals from using it to hide their misdeeds in the open. Those little solid gold amulets aren't solid at all. They're small radio frequency memory chips covered in an induction casing made of copper electroplated with gold. All he has to do is get near a computer with an active Wi-Fi, Blue Tooth or similar wireless capactity enabled and he can mass-grab anything in the machine in seconds. The data is probably stored in the RF-chips because they certainly aren't big enough to transmit anything. That's the source of all the security leaks the scientists and military stations have been reporting since we left drydock."

Crocker growled nastily "And the right bugger's been selling this to Iran for cash and perks. Well, that ends now. We'll take it from here, Lucas. No need for you to go on farther," the old officer declared, trying to spare the kid from the uglier side of counter-intelligence work. He clearly still didn't know the measure of the person he was addressing.

Shrugging, the teenager replied indolently "Fine by me, but you're both wasting your time on this creep, because I already got all his secrets anyways."

Lips pursed in anxiety, captain Bridger asked "Did you manage to extract anything from the computers we found in his quarters or work area? We're really hoping it's that easy, because the alternatives aren't pretty."

Shaking his head negatively, Lucas replied without a care "Nope, but I never expected him to be stupid enough tu use a CPU that would be accessible in case of a search. I have the sailors looking at the venting ducts and plumbing access ports around the places he's known to hang out with other people, like the quarters of other scientists or the reserved conference rooms. I'm sure his spy comms & bug-out gear are hidden nearby so he could use it to escape. Won't be long now. Besides, I got his fake beard; we don't need anything else."

"What fake beard?" Crocker and Bridger asked together.

Smiling widely, the adolescent use a careful, almost dainty pinch of his fingers to remove a loose, very long hair, from the goatee of the protesting prisoner, proceeding despite all the wiggling and weeping the spy made. Showing the hair to the soldiers, he explained his discovery; "The guy's beard hairs aren't all real, about a quarter are fakes made of highly refined super-conductive tungsten alloy. It works like the old 'iron-wire' recorders of the early 1920's and 30's. You polarize the molecules on the wire with a writer, then read it with a magnetic device that works like an old cassette player. In fact, if you had enough length, you could spool it on a bobbin and let it all play out automatically like a phonograph, tape deck or CD, or any other electrical media system."

Passing a hand over his weary face, Nathan clarified "If I get this right, he captures target info with the golden fetishes, then tranfers it to his fake hairs to pass through the security scanners when he goes ashore for leave or conferences?"

Shaking his head in denial, and admission of defeat, Manilow declared "Talk about going old school tradecraft! Unless we did a mandatory nude search with cavities on everybody who left or came aboard, we'd never have caught this in years! We're so damned fucked if they're doing this elsewhere!"

Lucas nodded, quite unhappy with the news he had to deliver. "I warned Janet and Bill about my suspicions concerning our dear fellow, and they aren't finding it funny. A global alert will be sent to all our partners when this little shindig is finished. I just need to pluck the cowering chicken and we'll have all the secrets his Iranian masters didn't want us to know. Won't they be happy in Teheran tonight..."

Despite all the sobbing, pleading and protests of inhuman treatments, the two sailors held the prisoner in place by the shoulders as Lucas used a specialized sensor to detect the metal wires then pulled them out one at a time. It would take several hours but be worth the effort at the end.


	4. BACKROOM DEALS

The author wishes to express thanks to anyone who may read his story and encourages them to leave reviews, comments or even flame it hard. As with any who try their hand at publicly expressing an idea or story concept, all feedback is important and welcome.  
Disclaimer: I do not own SeaQuest, Star Wars, nor any other sci-fi or fantasy series, movies, comics, cartoons or news items used in this fiction as they belong to the creators or broadcasters or publishers who put them out for consumption by the public.

SeaQuest

ABSTRACT

This story takes place in season 1, a few weeks after the SeaQuest was violently boarded and taken over by Colonel Shraeder and his mercenaries. I will be modifying several elements of that episode to fit with the fic, notably that there were more mercs in the transport, they were more violent and Lucas had been significantly more reactive and aggressive when helping to safeguard the ship and crew. The modifications to the canon of many episodes will be major and showed as such, in flashbacks or during discussion between crew members.

IMPORTANT: for the purpose of keeping this story logical and relevant, the episode "Nothing but the truth" where Shraeder invades the ship is set as #2 in the season instead of playing at #14. I then follow it immediately by the "Treasures of the Tonga Trench" as #3 instead of playing #5 in the season since I need the inspection to happen quicker to set up stuff quickly and again, logically in time and space. The episode "Bad water" where Lucas, Ford, Krieg and Westphalen are adrift in a life-raft is moved to #4 and then the rest goes weird from there...

This story is Alternate Universe, several characters are OOC and there are several crossovers with many of the maritime-inspired themes and mythos. Like my other story "Justice for Lucas" this has a lot of psionics, magicks et al as such things were part & parcel of the SeaQuest canon in all three seasons. There won't be any temporal mechanics & bypasses in this story.

PS; I like flames, they're fun to read so don't hesitate to write them.

WARNING; the language level of this one is a bit trashy when we consider a story based on boats and sailors. However, as I always warn people who read my work: this language was pretty much normal in the school yard 30 years ago when I was a teenager. So, how can you have such a thin skin and be part of the same culture on the same continent if this is really that offensive to you? Where did you spend the last few decades, if you can't take a few hard words from the mouths of kids when these words have been around since before World War I?

RV'ING TO DISASTER

FOURTH CHAPTER; BACKROOM DEALS

Ill omens

(SeaQuest – season 1 – opening theme)

Monday 10th of February, 2020; 18:55pm  
SeaQuest DVS 6000  
Long Island, New York, USA

Lucas was in the process of removing his fake beard hairs from Aakav Bhaat's face when his personal phone rang an ominous tone that surprised everyone, including him. That tone was reserved only for when Brutehilden Kriegswehr had really bad news to pass on, usually a death or high crime that hit close to home.

Putting the phone on the table, he toggled the speakers, saying aloud "WCC central, you are live on speakers. Room secured. Go ahead." Then he proceeded to remove yet another fake follicle from the traitor's quivering chin.

The firm, uncompromising voice of Brutehilden emitted from the small device loudly; "Guten tag, mein Gebieter. We have an unexpected combat fatality to report. Alan Downsborough was found dead in his motel room not long ago. He had just been killed when the owner of the establishment did rounds to insure electricity was returned fully, following a power outage that struck his commerce. The elderly male found our social media moderator tied to the bed, repeatedly stabbed and mutilated to death, with the blood still dripping from the bed sheets. The local police were called and they found our coordinates in the young man's wallet as the indicated next-of-kin for such cases."

Lucas sat down heavily on the chair normally reserved for the interrogator, passing a shaking hand over his face. He closed his eyes and bent his head for a minute, giving thanks and farewell to his friend on his final voyage. He had met face-to-face with Alan only once, their schedules and the distance between California and Massachusetts keeping them apart. Still, they used the Internex to vid-meet almost every week, and the other boy had been regular in his workload and reports. The loss hurt, far worse than Lucas had expected it to, since they weren't that close. He really needed to build himself a wider, more elaborate social network to have an actual personal life and emotional support for cases like these, so he didn't absorb it alone.

Sighing forlornly, trying to hide his pain, the adolescent declared "Thank you for the report, frau Kriegswehr. Unless there is level-7 data you need me to be aware of immediately, the rest can be sent in writing. The SeaQuest will be abreast of New Hampshire in just a few more hours, I'll take over the ground work in person. What can we do to advance the bus & rig? I need them now, as it happens. And please add mortuary forensics, police investigative and CQC specialists in the roster. You already have the preferrence list for the current mission parameters."

The sound of quick typing was heard from the phone speakers, until the woman said "The UEO has one jet-copter available immediately, and one tomorrow as scheduled. The team can be assembled inside of the coming hour, and airborne an hour later by 21:00pm on your clock. However, that would force you to decide whether to bring in the bus & trailer or bus & rig, with the equipment trailers leaving tomorrow morning."

Without any pause to think, Lucas replied "Ship me the bus and the rig ASAP, the materials trailers can follow tomorrow when the chopper's available. Just make certain we have the appropriate people onboard when tonight's shipment leaves. Also, have real estate look around the Portsmouth area for a building with the following criteria; cash purchase with quick escrow, no legal warranties required, necessitates move-in date as of today, in condition as-is pre-accepted. I want a warehouse large enough to house four full RV's & trailers side by side with the slide-outs extended, all inside the same room without split berths or partition walls. It needs to have an external parking lot for everything else, including cargo docks for receiving deliveries by tractor-trailors. It needs at least one full livable storey above to house offices, but I would like multiple storeys, up to three if possbile. If the lot comes with other buildings attached, old machinery, scrap yard or such, then take it anyways. We'll set a crew to mine the places we don't immediately use for goodies and advise according to finds."

The older woman confirmed her orders easily, just as she typed a written version for her employer to sign later in the day. She would already be processing everything as ordered, but Lucas wanted his records to be spotless, especially on CIA sanctioned contracts that had already killed a man of his.

As a last detail, Lucas ordered gently "Have employee medical begin processing the papers for Alan's recovery and funeral arrangements. I'll make time to travel to Newfoundland to bring him home to his parents, when the Portsmouth coroner, and our own team, are done with the autopsy."

"Mien sympathies, Herr Giebeter. He shall be missed here as well. Guten Nachten."

The comms shut down, leaving Lucas to pass his anger on the prisoner who now had a genuine reason to whimper, weep and beg for his safety. Unfortunately for Aakav Bhaat, the time for civility and mercy was passed, and no one would hear anything outside the closed, armored room.

First contact botched

(Batman theme – Danny Elfman version)

Monday 10th of February, 2020; 19:11pm  
Crow-Nificus Emporium  
Middle-heights, Crow Trench, New Hampshire, USA

Renfrew 'Dagger' Addamus polished the glass cabinetry that served as counter for his old mechanical cash register and modern laptop at the entry of the emporium. He was tall but thin, some 6' 3" high but only 175 pounds on good days, when his ailing health didn't act up. Then again, by the pox marks on his visible skin, rheumy black eyes, crooked mouth and stooped posture,you could see clearly he rarely had days when his health wasn't a problem since he was born to this depraved world.

The Addamus family had owned the dark, narrow building with its ground floor boutique and living quarters in the two floors above since the founding of the hamlet. Built in the old colonial style of the late 1600's like everything else nearby, the antiquated structure had evolved like the town around it. The owners had switched from all-wood to field stones in early 1700's, then morticed stone blocks for foundations and baked bricks for everything above the ground floor shop, with baked clay tiles for shingles in late 1700's. The old wooden shutters had been replaced by louvered steel works that looked better at some point. The opaque creamy white glass panes of the late 1700's had been traded for fully transparent but artful stained glass in mid-1800's when they added the colored placard on the wrought iron pole sticking out from the building's front upper balcony. Inside, the gradual additions of plumbing facilities, central furnace for hot water & air in the basement, then gas, electricity and such made the thin, tall house look more quaint than forlorn to the point of abandonment.

The Crow-Nificus Emporium was part aviary holding several types of living crows, ravens and magpies with all the pet shop accessories, part low-end veterinary lab, and part tourist-trap with shelves full of crow-themed knickknacks and dust-gathering decorations for those who had cash to waste. In the basement's hidden room was where the real trades were done. The alchemic lab was secured behind thick stone walls and an iron-banded oak door, with runes and wards to push away thieves or other enemies of the family. There, the proprietors sold or traded items for the Cult of Carrion related to the darker practices of alchemy, potions, the divinatory arts and the special mancy of Ravennashae.

The the current owner, Renfrew, had been called 'Dagger' since he was a mere boy due to his penchant to poke and prod everything with a small, sharp knife he always carried, including the sores from his many childhood diseases, or the tender fleshy parts of the sacrifices he offered to his cult's cruel gods. He was a devotee of Malar the Beast Lord, Master of the Hunt. He enjoyed hunting a weakling and slowly torturing them into insanity and death under every full moon the years brought. At the age of 39, his body count was impressive, even by Cult standards. Few dared to hunt as thoroughly and systematically as the members of the Addamus family had done for close to 400 years.

In fact, many of the trophy skeletons that anchored the Nightmare World wards and shadow magicks around the Cromlech of Carrion were gifted by the Addamus family over the period since they had colonized New England. To this day, no one could claim leadership of the Addamus without proving they were methodically killing at least one victim at each of the four seasonal festivals, plus the High Rituals that happened twice per year at the behest of the Lord High Abbot. Renfrew was thinking quite deviant thoughs about the cold corpse that was hidden in the second basement's private chapel, as the depraved sins of necrophilia were both a delight and an occult practice for their kin. His unnatural pruriences were stopped by the opening of the front door and the tinkling of the small tin bell hung above the frame.

Looking up from his rag, Renfrew groaned in misery as his life was gonna get complicated again for no good reason that could be justified. His idiot cousin Jasper Addamus had just run into the shop in a manner that reminded him of the times, when they were kids, that the younger boy had made such a foolishness that uncle Mikel was hunting for him with a strap in hand. What had the incompetent moron done, this time? Hadn't the dire warnings of war from the Lord High Abbot been enough to calm him down? Their community was on the brink of collective hardships, it wasn't time to rock the damned boat enough to make everybody seasick!

"Ren! I got me a situation! And it's a good one! I Promise!" the drab, brown shaded male said in clear excitement at his mess.

It really boded quite badly, if Renfrew's opinion counted for anything.

"I struck the first blow, cousin!" he panted excitedly as he set a badly worn leather messenger bag on the counter to empty the contents. "My divinations to Malar showed me a momentous victim to sacrifice this month! I went to the Portsmouth airport and found him, coming from the rich guys' side, off a charter of some sort. Anyways, I followed him to a tourist motel out in Rye, near High Rock on the Atlantic ocean shoreline. I sacrificed him good, but only after I mind-raped him hard. Good thing, too, cuz he's part of the outfit the Abbot talked about."

Exhaling in anxious reflex, Renfrew ordered him tersely "What! Part of what outfit? Explain yourself in human words, before the world burns around our ears!" Surely his dumb cousin hadn't done what he thought he done?

Nodding happily like the retarded fool he was, Jasper gushed aloud "The boy-child who is a leader of men! The kid I knocked off was an employee for his company. Officially, he was a student at a posh private boarding school in Massachusetts because his boss loaned the cash in exchange of a number of years of service before he looked elsewhere. The kid's real jobs were to be archaeologist & historian for his master's war efforts, and occasional low-tier programmer at a distance. There was a mishmash of facts from tens of cultures and religions swirling around his head, like turds in a stadium toilet after a long game. Whew, what a fucking mess it was! I'm glad I dumped all of that trash instead of keeping it inside my mind! Bloody waste of brain-power all of that non-white, non-european offal was!"

Shaking his head at the idiocy of his useless cousin, Renfrew mourned silently the loss of such varied and valuable knowledge from so many sources. In their crafts and trades, knowing the potential cultural or religious traits of clients was as important as knowing the habits of a future sacrificial victim to insure a successful catch. Only a consumate imbecile like Jasper could ever fuck-up a lucky catch as he found and let all the wealth of rare knowledge evaporate with the victim's passing to the gods. Sighing in deep regret that this was what his kindred were like, Dagger approached the small hoard that now littered his glass case's top to see if anything of value had been brought back. Not many chances, given who took the haul, but "hope springs eternal" and all that rot.

"What kinda phone is this?" Renfrew asked as he took the device that was larger, thicker and much more solidly built than the common models his victims had carried in the last decade. This thing was hinged in the middle and opened like a book, as if two regular smartphones had been screwed together to make a single item. Taking out a jeweler's eyepiece, the shopkeep adjusted the magical properties on the optical device to see if any magicks or potions were involved in the phone's crafting. No, it was solely mundane, as expected, but it showed remarkable resistance to being exposed to the natural powers and radiations emanating from any who practiced the arcane arts of their dark deities.

Setting the odd phone aside, he picked up the electronic tablet, which looked about as ordinary as any other he'd seen since 2010. In fact, even in Crow Trench's small school that housed all primary and secondary students together, this sort of device was common. Their hermit society had evolved, despite resisting all the way, and now oocultists, nobles and guildsmen alike used phones, computers, TV's and often enough cars or motor boats for the visible part of their lives. As was expected, the tablet had been shorted out by the outpouring of magical energies during the sacrifical rite the fool Jasper had enacted.

That reminded him of something important. His numbnuts cousin was incapable of discretion, especially when it came to hiding his baser habits from the normals. Ren had lost count of the number of times they had to ask for help from the other relatives and cultists to spring him from the local police station, or out of Portsmouth's central booking. Because of how huge and decentralized the mundanes' computer systems had become in the last four decades, the bastard's file with all the murderous crimes he was suspected of could no longer be found and erased. They could modify the memories of a few cops or town attorneys at the local level, but not reach all the way into the state troopers or federal police buildings in other parts of the country.

Motivated by a reasonable fear of his cousin having made yet another mess the Cult would have to work together to clean up, Renfrew powered on the Internex monitor. It hung discretely inside the wooden built-in cabinets, set back well away from the service counter and cashier's position so that occasional magical outbursts didn't burn it out without a valid reason. The damned things were costly, and buying one every other month was a damned pain, no matter the installation and rebooting the accounts in it after that!

"Ah, fucks!" Ren exclaimed as he saw the local news station showing a live broadcast of the Pebble Cove motel, with police cars and an ambulance, all flashers alight. He upped the sound but shut down the entire thing after barely a minute. Glaring most mightily at his cousin, he asked dangerously "What did you do, you crap-asser? Did you see the number of cop cars at that shitpit? The staters 'll be after your ass again by dusk! Git out, you mangy cur! Don't come back till I call you back!"

Forgetting all about the hot loot on the counter, Renfrew manhandled his cousin out of the store's front door in a rush, maing the cheap tin bell ring madly as the door opened and shut in a whirlwind of fear, anger and stress. On the counter, the half-open phone was too damaged to reboot and merely sparkled a bit before putting itself in security lock-down. The tablet however, was another story. It had been well away from poor Alan while he was being sacrificed as Jasper had knocked him out to ransack the place before killing the teenager at his whims. The phone had been in Jasper's jacket pocket because he grabbed it quickly, the tablet, cash and small items the younger Addamus thought important had been dumped in his 'murder kit' before the rite was set up properly, so they were still safe, and functional.

The tablet was military grade, reinforced against radiation, jolts and energy shocks. It also had several preinstalled hacking apps on the solid chips that held its BIOS and OS to do a clean reboot in case of getting hacked or suffering a power outage. This meant that the tablet was able to be remotely activated so that the cell-phone and Internex functions could be used to track the location of the device. It also allowed the remote user to engage 'ghost mode' which made the item work without lighting up the screen or letting any local activity interfere with the processes initiated during the trace-back protocol.

On top of the tablet, the small camera used for vid-meets slowly raised from its housing like a piston, thus becoming a thin rod of crystal that jutted out of the plastic frame by a quarter inch. This was enough for the miniature optics inside the prism to capture visual images and energy refraction scans from the room around, while the microphones absorbed hundreds of accoustic frequencies. Inside the tablet's body a GPS chipset pinged the map location while other sensors recorded temperature, humidity, barometric pressure, and vibrational frequencies that could indicate the presence of cars, trains, boats or airplanes nearby as secondary clue to the device's status. When all the automated data collection was done, the tablet activated the chipsets for cell phone, satellite phone, CB and HAM radio broadcast built into its thick frame to send its report home to WCC security in Palo Alto.

Soon, Alan's team would have what they needed to hunt down the insane cultist who killed him.

Especially when they saw the splotchy, grainy image with the thin, long, painted wood sign that hung behind the cashier's seat, high above the varnished oak cabinets; "Crow-Nificus livestock & gifts, established 1639, #7 Scarecrow Park Alley, Crow Trench, NH."

The drumbeat of war marching onwards

(SeaQuest – season 1 – opening theme)

Tuesday 11th of February, 2020; 17h47pm  
WCC compound docks  
Palo Alto, California, USA

The UEO's newly built jet-copters were quite nice machines in their own right, especially since they had finally learned the lessons from the venerable C-130 Hercules airplanes. Firstly, the ships had 8 articulated engine blocks that were composed of twin turbines for VTOL and hovering even inside a tropical storm up to Force 4. The ships had a massive girth, being 24 feet wide by 200 feet long, with two full-length floors that made the vehicle 24 feet high, each internal space being 12 feet high.

The lower floor was for the cargo modules and vehicles; it could store two Connex boxes side-by-side or park a single RV with the slide-outs extended. In either case, the space was calculated to have the payload positioned, the seats and lockers along the sides and still have 2 feet wide of unencumbered space to walk around freely. There were cargo ramps at the front and back, as well as two personnel ramps on each long side to facilitate evacuation under enemy fire.

The upper floor was divided between the cockpit which had its own reserved folding bunks, food nook and wet bath for long flights, as well as four piloting stations instead of just two like the C-130. The ship's mechanical systems were split in two large blocks, one right after the cockpit and then just before the rear weaponry emplacement. The passenger cabin was in the middle, capable of lodging 24 large soldiers with full kit in spacious folding bunks. The bunks were built 3 high with 3 metal lockers at one end, and they were arranged in one batch of 4 stacks, two rows of wet baths against the outer sides of the craft and common tables in the middle to eat, then another batch of 4 bunk stacks. This was rather cheaply built and cramped, yet leagues better than the way the old C-130 transported people on folding benches and no toilet.

For combat the ships had been armed for both self-defense and attack capacity by emplacing permanent turrets that carried beam weapons. The newly developed energy emitters were still prototypes, but had proven reliable enough to be mounted on the airframes as part of the testing phase of the R&D. The most prevalent weapon was the pulse rifle, a medium ranged system that shot a bolt of concentrated particles up to 1,000 yards at high speed. The ship bore 16 dedicated automated CWIS turrets that had a pair of fire-linked rifles to scan, track and destroy any incoming projectiles or debris tossed around by storms. In a pinch, these small turrets could serve to finish the clean up of a rough landing zone. Also, the targeting systems could be programmed to detect and snipe mid-range infiltrators that were sneaking up on the ship when it was parked on the ground. The main weapons were 4 turrets carrying a heavier, more versatile type of armaments, 2 in front and two in back, suspended under the thick struts that held the engines. This did limit the sideways firing arc as they couldn't turn completely, but they still managed to reach 65º towards the outside, and elevation of ±75º as well. The weapons on thsoe four capital turrets were a main phonon maser cannon that directed concentrated sound particles & vibrations up to 6,000 yards, and a pair of fast-repeating light pulse cannons that shot up to 3,500 yards. In order to avoid munitions troubles, the only physical munitions were a dozen small SideWinder missiles and two racks holding six barrel-bombs that could also be used as depth charges.

The UEO Alliance had managed to build only six aircraft of this type to date, with two dozen on order and options for up to 48 ships more after. The problem lay in the fact that only one factory built them and they could only produce two at a time, at a rythm of four per year. Unless the company accepted to open a new production plant somewhere, the six ships in service were it for the duration.

And so it was that in the depth of dark night, in the early hours of Tuesday 11th of February, that one one the UEO's prized cargo airships descended upon the concrete piers of the Wolenczak Consolidated Cybernetics Inc. like a huge crow alighting to feed on an old, cold corpse.

Quickly, two large vehicles moved down from the compounds' garage annex, rolling heavily on four tread blocks that allowed the all-terrain capacity needed to reach wild work zones while being as easy to drive & steer as a regular truck. The tread system was placed in replacement of the usual wheels, so the driver could use an ordinary wheel handle to move the frame as needed. Both vehicles were based on the chassis of a forty foot long bus with double rear axle, making for sturdy reliable platforms.

The first vehicle was 'The Bus'; something that looked pretty much like a regular recreational vehicle from the outside. It was made to resemble a high-level Class-A motorhome and did in fact share many similarities with commercially constructed RV's. It was 40' long by 8' wide, but topped 11' high instead of the usual 9' height civilian machines had. It had treads instead of wheels, with greatly extended bumpers to carry emergency winches and attach hydraulic tools as needed by the projects. The bus had two piloting and two working stations in front. Then two 4-seat dinettes, large chef's kitchen split in two modules, the pantry in movable stacks & laundry with side entry, followed by 2 massive wet baths, then two 3-seat couches and finally a workshop/warehouse with a four foot wide cargo ramp. During the night, the slide-outs were extended thus allowing to move the two dining tables to the middle then lowering large double beds where the dinettes and couches are located, permitting to sleep 8 in total.

The second vehicle was 'The Rig'; this was the industrial workhorse of the mission. It was not designed to sleep in, only work. So it carried the same 2 piloting & 2 working station in front but had only a 4-seat dinette with limited kitchen, and two large wet baths. The center of the rig was a permanent armored block that held the central hydraulics valves & controlers, the cybernetic servers and life support controls. After that was the extensible workshop that held the massive furnace and fabrication table. The furnace could burn anything gaseous, liquid or solid and use the heat to boil water for the vehicle's needs, feed the engines wood-gas as replacement fuel, or even power the motors with hot water steam to keep on moving. The fabrication table had a small 1 gallon crucible, large wet sink and its own hot water tank. Atop the table was installed a commercial CNC & 3D printer combo that had been designed by Lucas a few years back. This was a smaller, more mobile version that could be taken off the table to set up elsewhere when thy needed space to work. The last part of the rig was actually open to the elements, being a large platform with an 8' wide cargo ramp at the back. This flatbed cargo area was topped by a telescoping crane arm that could be extended fout time to reach 35 feet of length, and its support pylons could be elevated once to have an extra 7 feet of clearance around the rig when pivoting loads. The crane's max charge was 4,000 pounds in all conitions. Usually, the mission team would carry a small Caterpillar back-hoe rolling on treads, a small dumper/forklift combo on treads and a rolling box that served as field tool shed, comms array and generator shed when the rig had to move away for supplies runs.

{ SQ } --- { The road trip to Hell } --- { SQ }

(Gargoyles – opening theme)

It had been planned to have 7 hirelings plus Lucas himself spread between the two heavies. It would now be 6 plus 1, until they found another specialist in societies & religions to compensate for the loss of Alan Downsborough. It wasn't like WCC had many professional historians or archaologists hanging around the building just for fun. And people who were that competent at such a young age as Alan had been certainly didn't run wildly in the streets. It would take years for Lucas to find, educate and prepare a replacement of that caliber, if ever he was lucky enough to happen upon a proper candidate.

As it was, the core team composed of Juliana, Nicolas, Mitchell and Lucas would have three regular employees to complete their more specialized mission requirements.

Jeremy Dansk was 24 years old from Minnesota, male, caucasian white, black hair, green eyes and an amiable disposition. He was a professional vehicle tech that had worked in the US Army's motorpool as mechanic, machine-tool operator and fabricator for 3 years before leaving after an incident injured him. The problem was caused when he was sexually harrassed by a male superior officer who then arranged the accident to cover his misdeeds. The Army preferred to discharge him with full benefits and a big bonus rather than go to court over things. Lucas had recruited him 2 years ago.

Holden Infaith Landrew was 25 years old from Louisiana, male, black, with short black hair, brown eyes, built like a bank vault with a taciturn approach to events. He had passed 6 years in the US Army SeaBees, the Corps of Engineers, before being recruited by WCC. He had been trained in driving all manner of off-road vehicles, mechanics, electrical systems, generators, plumbing, ventilation, carpentry, metallurgy and masonry. Basically, he was the team's specialist at chosing a camp site and maintaining every piece of equipment they had in good order. In a pinch he could also guide them in fighting a fire or cleaning an industrial spill.

Marjorie Wang-Declan was a 22 year old from Michigan, bi-racial chinese and black, with black hair, black eyes, small slight stature and a nasty disposition towards most of life. She had been employed by WCC for 2 years already as part of their employee medical system. Her poor mother Minhg Wang had been traficked from China to Canada, to be exploited as a cheap massage parlor whore in Toronto, until the Triad that owned her bought a shipment of drugs & guns from a Greek gang in Chicago. The Triad paid their illegal merchandise with money and 20 slaves packed into a 20 foot Connex box that went over water, crossing Lake Huron then Lake Michigan to deliver its miserable payload. Marjorie's mother was captured a year later by the USA's ICE police in an immigration raid on the parlor where she was forced to please customers. She was granted refugee status and met her future husband who was working as a deacon in the mission where the poor women were guided to receive help. Ernest Declan was a good man, and Minhg was a strict but gentle, loving mother, both doting over their single child. Until a small gang of hoodlums decided that they needed to shut down the mission to show the whores and drug mules that there wa no leaving the streets, or their grasp. They shot-out the building while Ernest, Minhg and 10 year old Marjorie were helping the congregation with a fresh batch of rescuees from the cruelty of a different gang. Her parents died immediately, and she lost her left leg below the knee. Ever since then, Marjorie has devoted herself to becoming a paramedic and forwarding all informations she could to the cops. When Lucas hired her, she transferred all her efforts to WCC and its silent mission to eradicate perverts as they were the primary clientele and profit source of the gangs she hated.

The six young people finished stowing their massive vehicles in the cargo hold, then made their way up to the passenger block to be out of the way during the 11 hour flight. It was almost 18:00pm on their clock, but they would be going forward 3 hours as they moved across the country.

Time zones, berkh!

By the time they arrived in Portsmouth it would be around 07:00am on their usual clock, but almost 10:00am on the local hour.

Blast, that was gonna suck major balls.

Marjorie Wang-Declan grumbled all along that the change from Pacific coast warmth to north-east winter storms was gonna wreak havock on her prosthesis jointing plate and nerves while they staked out their claims to a pair of racks to fit all six together. Mitchell agreed with her, explaining that the multitudes of little scars on his skin tended to itch when it got too cold because the epidermis was contracting. Landrew and Dansk stayed silent while Juliana and Nick grimly closed the procession, still mired in the loss of their long-distance friend Alan.

As a well ingrained reflex, Nick aimed for the coffee maker as soon as his duffel bag had hit the bunk he wanted. It wouldn't do much, but drinking something warm and a small snack before sleeping for five or six hours would be better than moping around in depression. Thank god he had Glazier with him. The white huskie had already taken his spot on the lowest bed, near the partition wall that separated this stack from the pair over. Just having something as normal as hugging his dog while he drank his coffee would do wonders for his emotions.

Deciding on being helpful instead of morose or selfish as were his default attitudes, Mitch opened the small pantry closet to find out what reserves they had for the flight. It was all generic stuff meant to last for years if the ship crashed in the remote mountains or some forsaken island at sea. The tin box of 'Shelter Crackers' with an image of a fallout bunker in the middle of an atomic mushroom cloud made him blink a few times then shrug it away. It wouldn't be the last time he saw exemples of US military idiocy in his life, getting hung up every time would just give him a migraine. The pantry really was a desolating sight; only dry, dehydrated or canned stuff, no fridge at all. The whitener for the coffee was some damned grainy powder in a bulk tin bolted to the wall next to the machine, just like the sugar.

They should have been warned; he'd have brought some food just for the trip instead of his personal snacks hidden in his duffel. Rooting around the shelves, he found two bulk tins of soup mix that were almost as offensive as their brand tags promised to not have any genuine meat proteins, dairy/lactose, nuts, gluten or allergenics inside. WHAT did it have in there that could be nutritious? The food dye?

Turning to his colleagues with a frown, Mitch declared nastily "Well folks, we got yellow paste that's supposed to be cream of fake chicken, or red paste that says it's creamy vegan minestrone. I don't like the looks on either of them, but them's the balls for this game."

A low bass laughter answered him from the rear stack of bunks where a group of SEAL's were passing time amongst themselves until they could finally get off at their base for scheduled familial leave.

"You have seen the amenities on the old C-130, man!" the veteran soldier exclaimed happily, "I'll take this kind of trip anyday!"

His colleague, a bit younger but no less worn, added "Yeah, at least they have a pantry and a gas hob to cook on. And the coffee pot. And the blessed privvys, instead of squatting over a plastic bag behind some crate. When you got lucky enough to have crates in the barge! Ah!"

The older group was laughing along when Holden replied gamely "I was SeaBee's back a few years. Did a trip in a Chinook across Africa, from Iraq to the World Power Plant's control village. After that, I wished real hard for the luxurious, vast open space inside a Hercules."

The older soldiers guffawed at him, their team leader nodding wisely as he quipped "Now there's a guy that did some road in his days! Welcome to the club of weary travelers on the unfriendly army skies! How can we make you uncomfortable today?"

More laughter sounded as Marjorie griped back "You can keep to yourself anything about this overly synthetic food until AFTER we get off. I don't want digestion or sleep bothered by the nightmares I'd have about it if I knew."

Getting his answer that way, Mitch drafted Nick into helping prepare a pot of creamy pseudo-chicken maybe soup for everybody in sight. He promptly delegated Jeremy to go warn them they's have warm sludge in about 15 minutes, if they were suicidal or just plain desperate for a break from flying.

As the pot of soup mix, water and plenty of salt was reaching a hard smelly boil, Juliana's phone rang with a tone she had programmed for this particular department. The WCC's internal security department, division of wiretapping & surveillance. They had managed to remotely activate one of the devices stolen from Alan Downsborough's room during his murder, and they had finished the preliminary analytics. The meta-data and GPS were formal, he was inside Crow Trench town, in the second level of plateau, near the eastern outer edge. They had even managed to get scans of the room where the tablet was held; an old pet shop -slash- tourist trap called 'Crow-Nificus' with an address and a list of the family that owned the antiquated, decrepit boutique. They also had a warning about several of the members of the Addamus family having municipal, state or federal penal records and several arrest warrants still pending.

When Juliana read about Jasper Addamus and his close relationship to his older cousin Renfrew, the current older of the family's old commerce, she just knew she'd found the culprit. Her gut never failed her when it came time to identify somebody who deserved to burn. She sent an SMS to Lucas, and began to plan for warfare, even as the genius teenager would plan for bringing in the state troopers and FBI into the mess to give them a protective veneer of legality. Once the bastards were exposed to the light of day, deals would be made and entire houses would blaze in the night.

A wide, convoluted web was woven

(FBI – opening theme)

Monday 10th of February, 2020; 21:07pm  
FBI regional office; the Brandis Building  
Portsmouth, New Hampshire, USA

The night watch SSA (special supervisory agent) who had the run of the bullpen for the graveyard shift got the scare of his life when the red telephone that linked straight to the Hoover Building in DC rang in that insistent manner that told everybody this was gonna be bad.

SSA Daniel S. Deweller swallowed hard the mouthful of coffee that had almost gone down the wrong pipe and picked up the aggressive device in all due haste. He really shouldn't have. He found himself on a conference call between the Bureau's Executive Assistant Director of criminal & cyber response, the fucking CIA's Deputy Director of Strategic Services & Operations, and the bloody NSA's Deputy Chief – Adjunct of Cross-Functional Unitswith a problem from his Division of Threat Operations.

No, this wasn't going to be a good night anymore.

As far as Daniel could understand, there was -SOMEBODY- who was was a civilian contractor working on a job that was for the benefit of many masters all at once. All three said masters now had to account for a dead body hitting the ground and aforementioned contractor being on the warpath. In order to keep things, clean, presentable in public court, and preferably without soiling the eastern seaboard for the coming century with indescriptible poisons, the three massive agencies would lend some ground support and legal cover. As such, the FBI was best placed for the task, especially since the major suspect in the killing of the UC agent that was casing the job site was an already wanted felon that had eluded them for close to 11 years now. And the murder fit the guy's MO, plus the GPS trackers on the dead agent's gear lead back to the Addamus family's property on their forasken hillock.

Somehow, Danny didn't think this was going to be that easy.

This was confirmed when the three something-something directors explained that they would all send teams of experts to Portsmouth to do forensics on the DB, and gently caress the ruffled feathers of the civilian contractor who happened to be bringing a mother-fucking huge nuclear battleship with him as part of his mission. They would have the blasted, stupidly phat-assed SeaQuest inside their poor little river system before dawn rised on the horizon.

Aaaah, crap!

Doing what he could, not what he truly wnated, Deweller agreed to everyhing the three bosses ordered of him, typing away a written copy of this to send his own lcal bosses ASAP the moment the phone went dead. Then,he'd have to get the operators to wake up the night shift early and even call back some of the day shift who had just finished dinner or gone home if they were lucky enough.

As the poor maligned SSA was just dropping the phone back in its cradle, almost ready to send his fatidic message to his superiors, the surveillance tech near his desk pivoted towards him with a weird expression on her face. "Danny? Did you expect some boys in blue? Cuz we got some state troopers at the front desk saying there's here to escort you to a crime scene."

Groaning aloud in misery, the SSA pulled his side arm from the drawer with extra mags, and began to yank on his flack vest as he ordered people around the watchroom ike all their lives depended on it. He took merely fifteen minutes to reach the front doors of The Brandis Building to meet the waiting state troopers, but it made him feel as if he had been lazily crawling on the hand brakes. The senior ST captain verbally updated him on the case, which was essentially a verbatim repeat of what his over-boss had told him on the phone before.

They had about an hour to ride through downtown's evening trafic then the scenic route along the outer banks to the Peble Cove motel. Boy did that ever sound like a cheap whorehouse for tourists if ever there was one. Still, the basic info on the place was that it was clean, no odd activity in years, and the local Rye village cops had nothing bad to report about the owners, or most clients in fact. The place was usually patroned by older, calmer vacationers during the spring, summer and early autumn seasons, not in the dead of snowy winter.

His earwig pinged, the office calling with a few key infos; the age and specifics of the victim, a 16 year old white male on a business trip for Wolenczak Consolidated Cybernetics Inc. The boy had been killed slowly, torturously, with occult symbols written in the mirror next to the bed, giving it a cult vibe that matched with the MO of Jasper Addamus and several of his depraved kin. The murderer had evaded in a lot of hurry when the power went out & back on, since the owner went to visit his only tenant to insure the boy was safe, and still wanted to stay despite the iffy electrical grid. In his haste, the perp left some hairs and what looked like spittle, so the labs could process DNA in the coming days. Or maybe more like hours if the people sneaking around DC had their say.

As he listened to his earwig, Daniel was relieved to hear that his regional supervisor, SSA Dominique Hanfield had returned from home to take over. The 57 year old woman was much more attuned to the politics that happened between the spying agencies than Danny was, and she had several conacts that would make her job (and life) less messy than they would with him. The mature woman's voice in his ear was a calming influence as she confirmed his direction towards the motel, a different team with SWAT from state & Portsmouth PD heading to Crow Trench to find and arrest every Addamus they could find while BOLO were being emitted for all known adults the family had living in the area.

"Oh, Danny," his boss said in his earwig as they neared the motel, "When the CIA's pet contractor arrives on site, give him exemplars of all the DNA and objects our forensics team will pick up. He's coming with the SeaQuest and they have top of the art labs, including forensics and identifying weird, unexplained thingies that dwell in the depths. They'll do a prelim in minutes without our lab's month-long backlog to wait through, then our people can process the confirmation tests at their own speed afterwards."

Groaning in misery as he laid his head back into the car seat's headrest, Daniel mumbled "The bloody UEO Alliance is in our backyard now. Whoop-peddy Bloody doooo! Do you want a side of NATO with that fuck-up, mister? It's free! I should have taken that vacation time when they offered it in January!"

The laughing state troopers around him really didn't make things better, no they did not.

First sucker punch received

(SeaQuest – season 1 – opening theme)

Tuesday 11th of February, 2020; 00:00am (midnight)  
Pebble Cove motel  
High Rock / Rye hamlet, New Hampshire, USA

The long sleek metal cylinder of the MR-3 class shuttlecraft broke the water's surface easily as the small launch approached the shoreline at high speed. Without any warning, the vehicle used four underbelly nitrox jets to give itself a small boost as it willingly beached itself, going inland all the way to the road passing less than 100 yards from the waterline. The goal was the line of flashing blue and red strobe lights affixed atop the police cars and ambulance assembled in the parking lot of the Pebble Cove motel.

The shuttle had barely shut its engines that the side door lifted up noisily to disgorge a coldly enraged Lucas Wolenczak followed by chief Crocker, captain Bridger and three security guards. The six men walked in the slushy coastal snow in dreary silence, knowing full well already what was waiting for them in the motel's rental suite. They had several hours to macerate in misery and uncertainty about the facts, after all. And nobody had relized just how cold, detached and fearfully nasty the kid could become until today. Aakav Bhaat had required medical treatments, when Lucas identified one of his teeth as a fake, which he pulled out with long-nose pliers without any anesthesia or official dentistry studies to his name. It was a minor injury, and a minor violence, considering what Lucas had threatened the older man with, should India not want him back. The CIA wanted a chat with him, and the angry teenager would be present for that conversation as well, he had promised it ominously.

As the SeaQuest team came upon the actual porperty of the motel, they could see several official police cars and one ambulance with the logo of Rye village on them. Next to them was a car from the New Hampshire state troopers, then an unmarked blue sedan with an unlit red strobe light on the roof bearing FBI decals in the windshield, followed by a black SUV with active blue strobe lights inside the radiator grill and the windows of both sides with a carton CIA logo propped up in the driver's window.

Yeah, the Alphabet soup was in town. Oh joy of joys!

As the battleship's crew came to the victim's room, they found the Rye village sheriff with two deputies and the pair of paramedics from the ambulance, in conversation with many others who had very shiny, important badges. Lucas took out a plastic badge which he unfolded several times until it showed to be six different cards united inside one plastic sleeve. He clipped the kit to his left coat lapel and lower at the coat's belt to keep it in place visibly.

The three escort soldiers stayed outside where the junior deputies joined them, happy to leave the inhuman sight, and many big bosses, behind them. The adolescent genius signaled for the medics to leave as well, before him and the two senior officers entered for a conference with the sheriff and assembled riff-raff of bosses. When they were only seven people left, Crocker closed the door with a gloved hand, assuming defensive position in front of the thin wooden panel. Nathan took off his baseball cap bearing the ship's crest and leather gloves, opening his winter jacket and settling his nerves before saying anything that could light the fuse of a volatile adolescent warlord. As the Quest's crew made themselves at ease in the warmth, the police and agents present presented themselves inturn, confirming the presence of state, FBI and CIA. Daniel Deweller informed them of the NSA's supposed good wishes, and the fact they had been unable to have a team on site otherwise they would be graced by their presence as well. After the usual nods, grunts and platitudes of greeting were done, they got down to the brass tacks of things.

Lucas lowered is head in a half bow of respect for the cadaver splayed on the bed, maintained spread-eagled by thin black hemp ropes tied to impromptu holes punched through the cheap plywood head and foot of the bed. The sheets had not been turned down or removed so they were drenched in fresh, smelly blood that had dripped from the jagged rents torn into the corpse of his friend. The victim had obviously not been raped as only his upper body had been stripped and injured.

The depraved bastard who did the attack probably lacked the time to complete his torture as the entire motel suffered a sudden power outage that reset all the breakers, except for this room which had to be reconnected manually from the services panel just outside the entry door. When the owner did the hand-reset, he also knocked on the door to see what the tenant could have done that dragged so much current it had overloaded the circuit in that specific suite. Strangely enough, the simple weak knock moved the unsecured door, thus letting the owner see the horrifying scene in the now lit room. The older man was traumatized badly so he was sent to sit in his office, under the care of the other FBI agent until the medics could be freed to see to his needs.

Receiving the report and speculations of the sheriff with a cold, detached attitude, Lucas gazed unblinkingly at the cooling body as the words flowed around him like gelid water. He heard and understood every concept spoken, but they didn't matter for now. He took out his personal phone to take photos and activate the film mode as he panned the scene, occasionally zooming on a detail when he felt something was important. Like the red beeswax candle stub and incense ash in the small ceramic dish, left on the nightstand. Or the greasy, smudged red writing of occult symbols in the mirror above the dry vanity between the two single beds that were the central furniture of the room. Or again the kitchenette counter where the cook-top had been used to boil an antique iron pot of strange oil with herbs floating in the dregs of congealing liquid. Or the small tuft of dried herbs hung from the inert ceiling fan whose four LED lightbulbs had burned out during the power outage that clearly originated from this room, as attested by the black soot marks on the ceiling around the fan's mounting plate.

When he was finished with his preliminary filming, Lucas asked "Anything in the fridge, oven or bathroom that we should know? I want to have the SeaQuest do prelims then get NSA analytics' opinion on this before deciding what else I do."

Suprised, the sheriff asked "I can understand using your boat's labs for quicker results, they surely won't have a backlog to fight through like our will. But what in tarnation does the NSA have to do with this? Or the bllomin' CIA in fact? I was always told that cult kills were the FBI's bailywick, or state troopers when the sect is local and already in the books. Is this this tomfoolery part of some foreign scheme to mess with our shipyards in Portsmouth? We've got the US Coast Guard's new littoral patrol drone skiffs being built over there. Some 300 million dollars worth, and a hunnerd jobs, too!"

The younger man took out a sheaf of papers from inside his trench coat, handing them to the sheriff as he explained "My company is working in the area on military contracts issued by In-Q-Tel, the public corporate investment façade of the CIA, in partnership with the NSA's equipment R&D division. Normally the CIA doesn't have the right to act inside US soil, but the laws have a specific loophole that allows their civilian contractors and subcontractors to act in their behalf even inside US borders. We have a duly, legally signed mandate bearing the signatures of the directors of the CIA and NSA, along with the FBI's general counsel, so this supersedes the Bureau's usual pursuits. I have only a basic clue as to which guy/group did this, and why, but not why it was my company's social media moderator that was attacked, instead of an engineer or programmer. Maybe he was simply the poor, lonely kid in the forest that attracted the madman? That will be found out during the investigation to come."

Nodding in acceptance, and no small part of relief to see the case shunted upwards, the sheriff said "Yeah, the FBI's guys told me they have SWAT teams in Crow Trench, already running after the family of the man they suspect. They physically found your boy's work tech in their family business, so thye look good for the killing. Just don't know yet how far it all goes. What will you do now, for the night? Are you taking a suite next door or going back to your boat? There are other inns or motels in Tye, in case you prefer not to sleep with the flashers and action all around."

Shaking his head negatively, the youth replied in dead tones "Neither. Our delegation will return to the ship with the samples for analysis, then I'll come back immediately with my suitcases and lodge in the MR launch with the pilots until the rest of the Alphabet soup's noodles come in to handle everything. While a bit more cramped than the motel suites, the shuttle has an armored metal hull and automated sensors to protect us much better than this peanut can." Giving the policeman a side-glance, the boy added softly "No offense towards the hospitality or the owners intended, but I think you can see my perspective on this not being the surest place to lay my head."

Nodding morosely in reply, the poor old cop had no choice but to admit that one. "So, your boat won't send a bunch of soldiers to keep the place until the other feds and spooks come in? It's me 'n the guys till then? Are you certain were enough for this job?"

Lucas exchanged a short, direct glance with Bridger, Deweller, the ST captain and CIA agent before confirming "Yeah, you'll be enough. Whether it was a cult nut or a spy, he either got his setup finished to satisfaction, or, given the lack of seminal fluids, condoms, or more sexually explicit posing of the corpse, got interrupted before he was done. In either situation, I seriously doubt that the person who did this will be back tonight, or any day soon, especially with SWT busting down the doors to his kin. Besides, you have plenty of help, with the FBI's regional office sending agents, plus the CIA and NSA spooks floating around on the periphery. And if all goes bad, the SeaQuest will be in the Piscataqua watershed for the coming weeks, doing evaluations of the waterways and Vols Island base for further development, so you can cal them as last resort back-up."

Before they left, Manilow Crocker remarked "This has all the tells of a cult killing. Was your boy involved with sects or militias of the sorts, these days? You said he was your 'social media moderator'. Could he have gotten into a verbal/written fight with some fanatics through his web job? Cuz while the setup is cultish, it doesn't seem all that personal to me. No photos, no drawings, the injuries look harsh, violently done, but also pretty much disorganized. And none in the groin or face. In fact, his legs and face look intact. I would think it's more like a rage kill or a gang hit, if it weren't for the script in the mirror and the herbs dangling from the fan like a big eyesore."

Nodding placidly, Lucas admitted "It looks like this because it was done by a member of an ancestral cult dating back to the colonial period of New England. The cult demanded that each worshiper kill a number of people per year as sacrifices, and it had to be a certain setup to mark the kill as theirs. The scene is rushed because -something- blew out the electrical systems in the room, from that fan outwards to the panel & meters by the door. Plus, there's a weird oil with leaves on the stove that's cooling down, a beeswax stub and burned incense. Alan wouldn't have those things here willingly. He had bad allergies to three things; the red food dye usually employed to color cake icing and birthday candles, one of the herbs in that hanging tuft, and around 7 of the aromatics normally added to shredded frankincense wood to mold incense sticks or cones. With his reactive nose and airways, plus the allergy meds he used three to five times per month to unclog himself, he would never have used these items on his own volition. The killer set those up, and it corresponds to what we have in the files about Jasper Addamus and his ancestors' murderous cult."

The sheriff confirmed "The owner declared he never put hanging herbs or incense in the rooms when I asked about the odd smell wafting about. They have a small set of candles with matches in the short dresser under the wall mounted TV, but they're plain white 8 hour emergency candles bought in bulk. And no, we haven't seen anything weird in the bathroom, while I'm thinking about it. Didn't seem used at all since the last time the room was rented, near two weeks ago. Small town, you see. The clientele is seasonal in spring and summer, rarely autumn, and certainly never in winter like now. Your boy was the only tenant in the place when he arrived, except the owner and his wife who live above the bistro."

The CIA agent admitted softly "Standard procedure for the type of contract WCC has with us. Find a motel with full services in the room and establishment, but low trafic and far from commonly frequented roads and public markets to assure privacy. This one also had the benefit that the ship had to pass by on its way up into Great Bay for the inspection job they have. The rest of my field team is coming tomorrow morning by aircraft, with the rendez-vous point fixed here, although I'll change that as soon as the FBI forensics show up to handle the scene. They had a mob hit, mass casualties to process, in Kittery, in the northern part of Portsmouth's extended zone. They'll be here in the early morning."

Asking one last question, the sheriff queried gently from Lucas "Are your contractor folks gonna be armed? If you're on a military contract for the spooks, that should mean guns, right?"

Sighing deeply, Lucas explained "Personally, I'm 16 years old since last December, so having a permit, let alone an actual sidearm, is pushing the Patriot Act and NSA regs passed tolerance. However, given what just happened, if the evidence points at this being a targeted hit rather than a random cult killing, then yes, I'll get on the screen with DC to have some exceptional permits and licenses sent for each of my employees or subcontractors on site for this job. You will be warned of this. I'll go visit you in person at your station house if we have to operate in your jurisdiction with armaments."

Nodding in morose acceptance again, the older man said weakly "Fair enough, I guess. I'll see you later on, when the other badges get here. For now, I'll go comfort my neighbor and his wife."


End file.
